First Blood
by Riptide Monzarc
Summary: In the third story of Sanguinarius Sanctus, Warden-Commander Athadra's history finally catches up with her, and her decisions shake the foundations of the most powerful empire in Thedas.
1. In War, Victory

Author's note: Welcome to _First Blood_, the third installment of _Sanguinarius Sanctus_. It picks off right where _Birds of Prey_ ended, so this chapter has spoilers for the final chapter and the epilogue of that story. See what happens when Warden-Commander Athadra meets her match, and watch her actions bring an empire over the precipice of collapse.

Beware of spoilers for _Dragon Age: Asunder _and _The Masked Empire_, though there will be major divergences from both, owing to the established canon of _S.S._ Explicit violence, gore, and non-consensual sexual situations are also on the way. I answer all signed reviews, and I appreciate hearing any feedback, so feel free to tell me what you think!_  
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_Kirkwall_

_30 Bloomingtide, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

After four full years of shepherding the Hawke twins and their companions through the downright Orlesian morass of politics and business-along with the occasional shooting of competitors-that living with money in Kirkwall entailed, Varric knew he shouldn't have been surprised at how things turned out. But, for some reason, when he woke up that morning (okay, that afternoon), the beardless dwarf hadn't planned on a front-row seat at Blondie's one-man show, loosely titled _Let's Turn the Motherfucking Chantry into a Goddamned Hole in the Ground._ Yet here he stood, and up the hill, the motherfucking Chantry stood very much no longer. The show's audience had also comprised at least three-quarters of Kirkwall's annual supply of crazy in the form of Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, though they weren't standing anywhere nearby at the moment; after Meredith had demanded Hawke help her annul the Circle in response to Anders' crime (and after Hawke had told her to fuck off by way of killing about a dozen templars), the two power-brokers both scurried off to the Gallows, expecting Hawke and her friends to clean up their fucking messes, like always.

The moment of truth had come and gone, when Hawke's companions had to choose whether to follow her into one more fight. Siding with Orsino had been too much for Fenris, the former slave of Tevinter magisters...but the Hawkes' service to him over the years meant a clean break, without bloodshed. The rest of their company, from Aveline on down, affirmed their support of Hawke's decision...all except for Sebastian, who was just now working himself into an awful lather, demanding that Anders die for what he'd done.

"If I'd been in the Chantry today," the Chantry-boy whined, "would you be waffling now?" The irony of _Sebastian_ complaining about waffling was almost enough to make Varric laugh, but the sound couldn't quite penetrate the shock that still settled heavily on the dwarf's chest. "You know what must be done!" Sebastian went on, cajoling Hawke.

Anders, sitting on an overturned box, breathed something too quietly for Varric to catch. Hawke glanced back over her shoulder. "Help me defend the mages," she said, her own voice blank.

Anders mumbled something else, a little louder, that he capped off with a hearty "Damned right I will!"

Sebastian's shoulders hunched indignantly, but a shadow moved in the corner of Varric's vision, and he turned to see the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden step into the glow from the still-burning hole in the ground, its light reflected back at them from the dark midnight clouds. The elf's crimson eyes fixed on the dwarf so ferociously that he couldn't speak, but the ranting human seemed unaware of the presence inching up behind him. "No, I cannot let this abomination walk free," Sebastian insisted, audibly slamming a fist into his palm. "He dies, or I'm returning to Starkhaven!" As he continued, the Commander eased both of her longswords out of their sheaths, taking a deep breath and shaking her head. "And when I return," Sebastian swore, oblivious, "I will bring such an army with me that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!"

Merrill sucked in a gasp as the Commander's right-hand blade whipped into Sebastian's neck like it was a sapling's trunk. From Merrill's other side, Isabela whistled appreciatively when the Grey Warden pivoted, bringing the tip of her left-hand blade to the joint in Sebastian's armour, right under his armpit. Varric found his voice just as that sword plowed into the poor man's torso. "Holy shit," he gruffed, one hand reaching back for Bianca's stock...though he didn't like his chances, if the elven Warden turned her sights on him again. _Poor bastard_, Varric thought, as he saw the human's life spurt out from around the intruding blade.

Sebastian fell to his knees, and then onto his face, the last of his life spent gurgling in his own blood. His murderer grunted as she retrieved her blades. "Good luck raising that army, Chantryman," she rasped, straightening from the effort of pulling the sword from the side of his chest. Then she locked eyes with Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, her former charge. A moment of tension passed when the elf's head inclined, ever so slightly. "Let's get to the docks," she said, a hair above a suggestion.

Hawke didn't reply, but when the Warden turned around and began a silent march back into Lowtown, the Champion followed after her. Varric spared one last, regretful glance at Sebastian's corpse before he began waddling with purpose, and his resolve had Aveline, Merrill, and Anders moving in his wake. Isabela was already ahead of him, stalking in between the two Grey Wardens-one human, the other elf; both mages, both from Ferelden. Hawke had spent just over two years under the elf's command, first in Ferelden and then in Kirkwall, until the human had saved the city from the Qunari and assumed the mantle of its Champion.

"Athadra," Isabela mused, as though her and the two Wardens were out for a lovely nighttime stroll with Hawke's faithful mabari. The three of them were on first-name bases with each other...and though Varric occasionally wondered just how far those bases went, he'd never been quite drunk enough to ask when Hawke and the Rivaini were close at hand. "You wouldn't be commandeering my new ship, now, would you?"

The Warden actually _laughed_. It sounded like gravel getting ground into dust. "Just to hop across the harbour," she countered. "But you'd _better_ not sink her; we ain't got time to strip off our armour and put it back on."

"Small chance of that," Hawke sighed, almost wistfully. "Isabela's been trying to get us away from this madness for months, now-"

"Years," the Rivaini corrected.

Hawke sighed. "_Years_," she conceded. "I doubt she'd even let a hurricane waylay us."

Isabela gave them a full-throated chuckle, much more melodious than the Commander's rasp. "Got that right," she vowed. "So you'd better get things sorted out good and proper, because the _Falcon's Wing_ isn't calling on this port again until they've got some decent booty to plunder."

The Warden spoke up again. "We'll get it sorted," she promised, in a tone that promised the kind of _sorting_ that meant leaving behind a fucking tangle of body parts. He entertained another moment's reflection on Choirboy's cooling body, but he knew better than to air his misgivings aloud-even though the Commander had lost the outside of one of her ears in the fight with the Archdemon, her good ear was still as sharp as any elf's, and Varric thought his neck looked quite handsome with his head still attached to it.

oOoOo

Blood and sweat chilled Bethany's flesh, soaking into her leather and chainmail armour, drying on her face. The grime came from fighting templars and demons and even some of her fellow mages...and from the monster that Orsino had become, in the last hour of his madness. It was too much for her to accept, that the man she'd suffered, the man she'd fought and killed to protect, had given up on them all when he was needed most. More than that, he'd aided and comforted Quentin, the madman who'd butchered her mother. That betrayal was one too many, cutting deeper than the annihilation of the Chantry, boiling her viscera even as a shiver stole over her aching shoulders. She knelt in the centre of a vortex of carnage, bent steel and broken bones strewn about the ancient architecture of the Gallows, mocking the title that Meredith had given her.

She went through the motions of healing up Aveline, who'd mangled her left leg in the fight against the flesh-made golem that Orsino's eleventh-hour turn to blood magic had wrought in him...but Bethany's heart wasn't in it, and when Anders gently nudged her sideways, she surrendered to the abomination's superior skill. Aveline's pain must have been great, for she accepted the healer's touch without reproach.

_So much death_. She was glad Carver had stayed behind on the ship with Paqua and the Grey Wardens; all of the allies they'd found in the Gallows had either fled or been cut down, and it was almost miracle enough to rekindle her faith in the Maker that her friends were all still breathing. It was a close thing for Varric and Isabela, who'd both been tended back to ambulance by Anders while Bethany fumbled with Aveline's non-lethal injury. It galled her that she couldn't be more help, but after so many years of fighting to survive, of killing, of being forced to choose between factions, the Champion of Kirkwall was finished. Another shiver took her, but it settled down when a familiar arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Breathe," Isabela enjoined her. "Just breathe, Beth."

The Champion's lungs burned with the sudden rush of fresh air. "I...I can't," she whispered, falling into the pirate's embrace, burrowing her face into the crook of the other woman's neck. "It's too much."

"I know, Sunshine," Isabela affirmed, planting a soft kiss to the crown of her head. The two sat there, holding one another unabashedly in front of the rogues and killers that they called friends, just breathing with one another. Bethany did not weep, though she might have; she simply waited, waited for someone else to decide her fate, for good or ill.

After a few moments, the Champion's deliverance came, in the form of her former Commander. Thus far in the evening, Athadra had been content to compete with Barcus for the role of attack dog, unleashing her unfocused wrath on anyone unlucky enough to stumble astride her intended path; now, however, the elven Warden emerged from her bloodied corner, standing tall in her enchanted armour and holding her swords at the ready. "It's time," Athadra pronounced, in her battle-roughened voice. "Meredith's waited long enough for us."

Bethany kept a corner of her eye reserved for the elf, still unable to muster anything like the courage that Athadra had helped to instill within her. "If her patience breaks," the Champion countered, "let her come."

Athadra's blood-coloured eyes narrowed, and her tongue flicked out to smear a stray fleck of crimson over her upper lip. "If we give her the initiative, she'll kill us all," she pointed out. Then her voice cleared, like Gamlen's might have, after taking a swig of whiskey. "I ain't gonna let that happen."

Despite Isabela's presence, Bethany felt another stab of cold crawl along her spine. "So will you kill me, instead?"

For just one shining instant, Athadra's gaze grew soft, and it seemed possible that she might show a scintilla of compassion. But then she glanced away, and the instant passed, her expression growing cold and hard as frozen stone once more. "If I have to, Beth," the Warden allowed. "But I'm taking the fight to Meredith," she told them all, her voice booming high enough to fill the corpse-strewn hall. "And I will see her _dead_ before this night is through. Which of you will join me?"

One set of feet stirred, and when Bethany tilted her head to look, she was unsurprised to see Anders' haggard form limping toward the Commander of the Grey, the woman who turned him into a Grey Warden, and whose decisions contributed to his decision to invite a spirit to take up residence within him. Athadra could have washed her hands of him long before now...of Bethany, too. This battle had nothing to do with darkspawn, after all. But instead the Commander was here, battlescarred and standing against the knight-commander, a firewall between a madwoman and the annihilation of most of the mages in the Free Marches.

That was enough of a handhold for the Champion of Kirkwall to latch onto, and as she took her next breath, she felt a bit of the ice in her guts begin to melt. "Alright," Bethany sighed, conceding her weariness to Athadra's indomitable will. She groaned as she pulled herself up to her feet, turning around in the cluttered space. Merrill, Aveline, Varric, and Isabela stared at her with varying degrees of hope, trust, worry, and determination; Barcus and Anders flanked Athadra, and that trio seemed relieved. "Let's get out of this death-trap, then."

oOoOo

Against his wont, Anders marched just a half-step behind both of his fellow Grey Wardens, while the rest of the crew kept a few paces' distance, mostly on his advice. The fight with Orsino and healing the party afterward had drained all of the mages' mana, and the fight back through the Gallows saw each of them call upon their blood to power their spells...and that made it too dangerous for the civilian companions to fight alongside the Wardens, lest they catch the foul corruption which coursed through the Wardens' veins.

After destroying the Chantry, it shouldn't have felt like such a surrender for Anders to open his veins and cast his lifeforce at demons and templars; just like Bethany, he'd learnt the skill at the Commander's behest and through her direct instruction, but he'd managed to avoid succumbing to its use in the years between his arrival in the Free Marches and this very night. It put lie to his frequent upbraiding of Merrill's folly, and while the seriousness of their task had kept her from commenting on his hypocrisy, the rebel Warden still caught glimpses of recrimination whenever he looked back at the three civilians behind him. In the end, Anders had to face the consolation-the horror-that he'd had no more choice in becoming a maleficar than he'd had in destroying the Chantry and setting Kirkwall against itself; both had followed Warden-Commander Athadra's designs, both accomplished by her characteristic stew of threats and persuasion.

There were just over a dozen templars in the atrium when Bethany and the Commander led them down the last flight of stairs into the main courtyard of the Gallows. Among them was Knight-Commander Meredith, the last remnant of Kirkwall's civil authority, now that the viscount, grand cleric, and first enchanter were all dead. The sight of her should have done something to fill the howling wilderness within Anders, but as her ice eyes took in the rebels who'd come through so many of her subordinates, who'd come to kill her, the possessed mage could muster only a sliver of pity instead of any rage. For her part, Meredith's lips curled in a snarl as the bloodied companions drew nearer.

Bethany, it seemed, had recovered a bit of her will, for she spoke up at the bottom the flagstone steps. "You'll pay for what you've done here," she sighed, still trying to catch her breath.

Meredith scoffed at that. "I will be rewarded for what I've done here," she exclaimed, her focus drawing in on the woman she'd named Champion of Kirkwall. "In this world and the next."

Bethany's shoulders hunched, but before she could offer a reply, Warden-Commander Athadra stepped in between the Champion and the knight-commander. "I'll give you your reward, Meredith," she gruffed, hefting her bloodied broadsword halfway across the distance between them. The Commander seethed with rage enough for all of the other companions put together, and likely the other Grey Wardens guarding Isabela's ship, as well. "And I'll kill any who make their stand with you."

Anders saw Knight-Captain cullen stiffen from the corner of his eye, but the bulk of the apostate's attention was drawn into Meredith's bravado in the face of the Champion of Redcliffe. "You were never part of this Circle," the knight-commander allowed. "And I tolerated that." _Though you tried to put her here_, Anders reflected, recalling the tale; early in the Commander's plans for Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Meredith had tried to apprehend her, supposedly to ascertain the elf's true identity...she'd brought a dozen templars with her for that assignment, as well. Meredith's _tolerance_ had come at the cost of all twelve of their lives-eleven by Athadra's hand, and the last by Meredith's own, for dereliction of his duty to apprehend the Commander. "But in defending them," the knight-commander went on, "you've chosen to share their fate." She took a single step back, glancing to her templars. "Kill the Wardens and the Champion!" Meredith barked, her hand going for her own sword's hilt. "Kill them all!"

The Commander tensed, but an unexpected voice stilled her assault; Knight-Captain Cullen spoke up, sounding like a man trying to negotiate with the plague. "I thought we agreed to arrest the Champion," he said, though his eyes fell heavily on the elven Warden.

Meredith's eyes frosted anew as she looked at her subordinate. "We are well beyond that, Cullen," she breathed, almost a plaintive call. "You _must_ support me in this."

A heartbeat passed before the knight-captain shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Knight-Commander," he insisted. "But I cannot."

"Fine," the knight-commander hissed, drawing a deep breath. "If even my most trusted lieutenant is insubordinate, I will take care of it myself!" And, with that, Meredith's hand closed on the jutting handle of her odd greatsword. It glowed angrily when she drew it, a demonic red, prickling and whispering a half-familiar siren's song in the back of Anders' mind. Then Meredith's ice eyes lifted, crossing over the Commander, over Anders, settling over the apostate's left shoulder. Right on Varric. "You recognise it, do you not?" She said, almost a chant. "Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged me a great deal for his prize."

The bottom of Anders' stomach fell out, but behind him, Varric let out an indignant bellow. "It stole Bartrand's mind away!" He yelled. "It nearly killed him!"

"He was weak," Meredith spat, running her left hand down the flat of her lyrium blade, almost seductively. The metal _hummed_, as if in anticipation of her touch. "Whereas I am not!" Then she rounded on her templars, swinging the sword in a slow, accusatory arc. "You have before you four maleficarum with their mundane thralls," she growled. "You _will_ do your duty and destroy them! It is the Maker's will!"

Cullen stepped forward, drawing his own longsword. It was fine steel, but likely no match against the knight-commander's blade; even so, he held it steady, pointing directly at her. "You go too far, Knight-Commander Meredith," he declared. "I am relieving you of your command. Stand down, and we shall end this madness."

The balance of power shifted, all in a rush, and in another few moments the templars had Meredith surrounded in a loose circle, their swords and shields all drawn against the woman. In response, she accused them of being thralls of blood mages themselves, and began calling upon verses in the Chant of Light in her defence.

Meredith spun around, looking from one templar to the other, and for a single heartbeat it seemed as though they had all forgotten about Bethany and the Commander, and even him. For that simmering heartbeat, Anders had a thought that they might let the templars' coup occur by its own devices, and escape in the chaos. But then Meredith looked beyond her circle of accusers, her eyes fixing upon the elven Warden, the woman she'd tried and failed to apprehend. _No_, Anders thought, halfway between a curse and a prayer...but, of course, the Maker had never seen fight to listen to him before. There was no reason for Him to start now.

The two women moved as one, coming together, both cutting through a pair of unfortunate templars who couldn't flee in time. The ten remaining, including Cullen, scattered and scrambled as the Commander of the Grey and the Knight-Commander began their duel.

Athadra's greatblade was called _Starfang_, the only weapon she'd named; it was beautiful, more than a handsbreadth from edge to edge, nearly as tall from crossguard to tip as the elf herself. The name came from the material from which it had been forged, during the Fifth Blight-star metal, fallen from the heavens. The steel was forked through with blue-green channels of raw lyrium, a form even rarer than the red variety out of which Meredith's blade was forged. The warriors matched one another blow for blow, swinging their thick weapons much more quickly than a naive onlooker might have thought possible, each clash of steel cracking the air like a thunderclap, punctuated by the exchange of wordless warcries.

The templars seemed awed and terrified in equal measure, and could not reorganise themselves adequately as Athadra and Meredith gained and lost ground over the flagstones of the atrium. Sensing his chance, driven by a thirst for vengeance and this unmissable opportunity, Anders bared his forearm once more, intending to slice it open with the bladed end of his staff and join the battle once more.

Bethany's hand landed heavily on his wrist, and for the space of a breath, blue tinged the edge of his vision as he glanced sharply at the Champion of Kirkwall. "No," she breathed, vocalising his earlier hope. "Not unless she needs our help." Her blood-smeared face was set as she looked back to her companions, her friends, only softening for a heartbeat as her gaze landed on the pirate who'd somehow let the mage into her heart, even if neither would admit it to the likes of Anders. "We will rest," she commanded, raising her voice over the sound of the battle-it was single combat, but could hardly be termed a skirmish-and then she turned back to observe Athadra and Meredith. Slowly, like he was easing a cramped muscle, Anders felt his inner companion loosen its grip around his vital organs.

A few more of the templars seemed to come to another conclusion, for they tried stepping into the ongoing combat, seeking weak points or unguarded flanks. Three templars gathered up enough of their courage to do this, and three times Meredith and Athadra broke off their engagement, turning to cut the interlopers into pieces. By now Athadra's sword glowed a deep teal, heated by Meredith's parries and its own magic. Each thunderclap came more quickly than the last, the air filling with a dazzling show of red and blue light, swirling and streaming. Anders was inured to the stench of burning blood, but he had no doubt it might have choked a few of the surviving templars. Strike for strike, the two women danced, the force of their blows shaking into the onlookers' bones. After a particularly brutal exchange, the combatants were thrown a few paces apart; a brilliant flash filled the atrium when they came together after having leapt to close the distance, and as the light dimmed Anders saw that their feet did not return to the ground as they ought to have done.

Instead, the screaming warriors took their battle to the skies. The aura of their blades spread, enveloping them in their distinctive glows...a sinister crimson for the knight-commander, a bright blue for the Commander of the Grey. Those two balls of light danced frantically, crashing together and flying apart, bouncing off of the Gallows' ancient columns and great bronze statues. The spectacle drew gasps and curses from the templars and the renegades alike; it should not have been possible to sustain such intense flight, even for demons or abominations. The display was awful and awesome, humbling to behold, terrifying to contemplate...that so much power could be concentrated into two living beings without shaking the whole of the world to its very foundations defied all understanding.

From the edge of his awareness, Anders sensed the rest of the Grey Wardens drawing nearer, likely investigating the sights and sounds of the duel. There were three who still considered themselves under Athadra's command; Nathaniel Howe, whom Anders had met in Amaranthine so long ago, and two Wardens recruited more-or-less from within Kirkwall. One was a mundane elf named Faenathiel, whose skill and quickness as a pickpocket had earned her a lifetime in the Deep Roads. The last was a Qunari-_Kossith_, Anders corrected himself-a _saarebas_ called Suredat-an, who stood head and shoulders above anyone else in the Gallows; her lips bore the telltale marks of having been sewn shut, and Anders had only recently regrown her tongue, so that she might speak. It was from her tongue that he learnt the Qunari formula for _gaatlok_, and how to lace it with enough magic to get the job done. There was also the elf, Zevran, who wasn't a Warden himself...but he was never far from the Commander of the Grey, just the same.

Anders' attention was drawn forcibly back to the atrium when Athadra's glowing orb plummeted from a height, flickering on the way down, until a heart-rending crash announced her arrival on the flagstones. Not seven paces away _Starfang_ buried half of its length into the solid stone floor, the steel white hot. Anders sucked in a gasp as he watched the blue-green lyrium bleed out of the blade, and before he knew what he was doing, he was already halfway across the floor to the Commander's supine form. The off-blue that had surrounded her was gone, but a more familiar glow began at the edges of the apostate's vision, and a moment later his world turned to darkness.


	2. In Peace, Vigilance

Author's note: Hello again, my lovelies! I hope everyone's enjoying Inquisition, but maybe some people have time to scope out some fanfic? I've decided to begin posting my rewrite of _First Blood_ because it's going to keep banging away at me until I finish it or Inquisition kills me, whichever comes first. Updates may not be regular, but they'll probably alternate between this and _Sol Invictus_, my ME grand campaign. Hope you enjoy this renewed outing, and as always, I love hearing what you think. If you're interested, you can also follow me on tumblr; just look for riptidemonzarc or see my profile for a direct link.

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_Ferelden_

_9:36-9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

The journey across the Waking Sea was uneventful, even if parting from Bethany, Carver, and Isabela was far more bitter than sweet for Athadra. The fate of the Wardens and that of the eclectic company from Kirkwall had been intertwined for years, but Meredith's fall-along with Kirkwall's Chantry and the Gallows-served as a point of departure that neither party could easily invert. The ship pulled anchor and sailed off within an hour of docking, its crew ready to thrive in the chaos they all knew was headed their way. As appealing as some lawless rapine might have been, the Wardens had their never-ending duty. Even though Bethany and Anders both had Athadra's tainted blood in their veins, she let them go without complaint, her mind already turned toward Redcliffe and the Deep Roads beyond. Athadra was mildly surprised, and more grateful than she could ever admit, when Zevran followed her onto dry land. He made no comment of it, and neither did she, but they both knew that he'd earned the right to sail away with the Rivaini pirate and her confidantes. That he chose to stay in Ferelden, to serve King Alistair and remain within Athadra's reach, said about as much as the ring she wore through the arch of her unburnt ear. More than they'd ever managed to say aloud to one another, at any rate.

Zevran accompanied the Wardens to Redcliffe, which Athadra had turned into the headquarters of the Order once the darkspawn in Amaranthine had been dealt with; after much political wrangling on Alistair and Eamon's parts, the Landsmeet had redrawn the map of Ferelden, so that Ferelden's two terynirs were Highever and Redcliffe instead of Highever and Gwaren. Further machinations from Eamon saw the title of Teyrn of Redcliffe invested in the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, so that Ferelden's Grey Wardens could more directly see to the needs of the western half of the country, which-Amaranthine notwithstanding-had seen the worst of the Blight and the Thaw. Eamon's actions weren't entirely altruistic, however; after Connor's folly and subsequent confinement to the Circle Tower in Kinloch Hold, Athadra had rescued the boy during her sweep of the tower's demons and abominations. Since he was a mage, he could not have inherited even a hide of land directly, by Chantry and Fereldan law...but the Landsmeet's decision with Redcliffe was unambiguous; the Warden-Commander of Ferelden would be the Teyrn of Redcliffe, and there could be no means of disputing the title without risking the wrath of the king. Therefore Athadra intimated that Connor would be inducted into the Grey Wardens when he came of age, and if Eamon's imagination got the better of him in envisioning his only son not as a landless mage, nor even a respected arl, but a _teyrn_...well, Athadra wasn't going to correct him of that notion.

Those bargains had been struck years before, when Connor was little more than a boy. Now Connor had seventeen summers behind him, enough for him to take a wife, begin a trade, or join a guard force if he hadn't been born cursed. In the years between his short confinement in the Circle and Athadra's return from the massacre in Kirkwall, Connor had grown tall and strong, as adept with a sword and shield as he was with a staff, and even more enamoured of the quill and parchment. For his training at arms he had Oghren and Athadra herself to thank, and for his letters he'd studied under Friga, a Harrowed mage of Avvar extraction whom Athadra had also taken from the Circle Tower to help tutor the boy more properly than Jowan ever could. Three days after settling into his father's former chambers and reacquainting herself with her staff and the small cadre of Wardens that had served in her absence, Athadra mixed darkspawn blood with a bit of her own in a silver chalice and watched Connor drink a hearty mouthful. The formula was a concoction partly of her own design, laboured over with the ancient wizard Avernus, who still held court amongst whispers and ghosts in Soldier's Peak. It was a more powerful Joining, giving Wardens heightened abilities from the taint; even mundane Wardens could manipulate darkspawn blood as though they were maleficarum. Aside from obviating the need to preserve archdemon blood, Avernus' Joining potion was much less lethal than its comparatively crude anterior. Only one in ten succumbed immediately to the cup's contents, rather than one in three, as the rest of the Thedosian Wardens had to contend with.

Thus, as the last of summer bled into autumn, Connor became the first of a relentless wave of recruits that Athadra and her Senior Wardens recruited from Redcliffe and the surrounding countryside. The Commander's distraction had kept Ferelden's numbers low for too long, but now her designs required many more than the handful of Wardens that had seen Ferelden through the Blight and the Thaw. From a core of less than a dozen Grey Wardens, Athadra expanded her ranks to thirty, then to fifty. More than seventy by the end of the next spring. A few among this number were advisors from Antiva, from Nevarra, from the Anderfels...even from Orlais. But the vast majority of the new recruits were Fereldans. Warriors, scribes, engineers, locksmiths. Bakers, butchers, thieves. But no class of new recruits numbered as highly as mages; not long after Athadra's return, news of Kirkwall's devastation spread, rumours from merchants and whispers from the lower clergy.

Though the templars tried to keep it from the mages of the Circle, it wasn't too long before the fraternities became restive. Though Ferelden's mages had gained some slight measure of autonomy, hard-fought by Alistair and bitterly opposed in every inch by the Chantry, the templars still more-or-less ruled over the Circle, and there was never any shortage of grievances to be found in the tower. Athadra was worried, at first, that her own involvement in the Gallows' battle would lead to calls to pre-emptively annul the Fereldan Circle, but Irving and the new Knight-Commander Loren were too fearful of bloodshed to pay credence to that aspect of the rumours. Athadra used their fear to propose an alternative to the normal choice between Harrowing and the Rite of Tranquility, that those mages who wished to venture beyond the walls of the tower could take the Joining and become Grey Wardens without being considered apostates. It meant a life of service, of battle, of pain, of fear, of too few summers. It meant following orders, and having a _reason_ to follow orders. Having brothers and sisters who would die if those orders were not followed. It meant getting to _use_ magic, not against a wall or a practice partner, but against ravening monsters who would kill if given an inkling of a chance. It meant the freedom from having to sit through one more sentence of the Chant of Light, or the freedom to attend a sermon every week; it meant being able to fall in love, being able to bear a grudge, being able to think and speak and read and write without worry.

The senior enchanters elected to allow the option by the narrowest of margins. Athadra had cause to reflect, while the deliberations went on, upon her conduct in the Circle Tower during the Blight. Apart from liberating Friga and Connor, and killing as many templars as she could lay eyes upon, the elf had murdered a senior enchanter called Wynne; the old woman had seemed earnest enough, willing and even eager to entertain the mission of the Grey Wardens, but she had balked at Athadra's use of blood magic, and at Athadra's lust for vengeance. When Wynne had stood between Athadra and a templar who deserved to die, the woman had as good as driven the Warden's dagger into her own breast. Athadra was not certain, now, if Wynne's voice would have supported this scheme, or if her vote would have turned the Warden's slim victory into a bloodbath. As it was, Athadra took her advantage with as much grace as she could manage. It was frustrating that un-Harrowed, Grey Warden mages would still have their phylacteries cared for by the templars, but that was a necessary sacrifice to placate the Chantry's footsoldiers. If need be, they could be dealt with, in time.

Templars were the one group of people Athadra did not allow into her ranks, and the reason she insisted upon sparring with every non-magical recruit before giving them the cup. A group of templars had snuck into the Wardens years before under Oghren's nose, while Athadra was away in Weisshaupt, their evident mission to kill Anders. Now, Athadra warned every recruit that she didn't accept tin-tops, and she crossed blades with each of them to test for the tactics instilled by their order. Those she did not kill outright had their throats slit in the privacy of Redcliffe's dungeons, while unconscious from the draught of tainted blood they hadn't deserved to sip.

Such an increase of her forces required Athadra to impose some discipline into the Wardens' structure, which it had lacked since the massacre at Ostagar. Borrowing advice from some of the foreign Wardens, Athadra named Nathaniel _Constable of the Grey_, her official second-in-command. Oghren, Sigrun, Friga, Stroud, Monroi, and Jarvik had served the longest beneath Athadra, and so they became Senior Wardens in name as well as in fact, each commanding a platoon of more junior Wardens. That summer, the thirty-seventh of the Dragon Age and the twenty-sixth of Athadra's life, she returned to Orzammar and re-established close ties with its king, Behlen Aeducan. With the help of the Grey Wardens and his own more progressive policies about which dwarves could serve in Orzammar's army, King Behlen pushed farther into the Deep Roads than any dwarven king in a thousand years. More than a dozen thaigs were reclaimed beneath Ferelden, though even with Warden help, the Deep Roads north into the Free Marches and northwest into Orlais crawled with too many darkspawn to reliably penetrate.

Along with experience for her Wardens and an increased commitment of lyrium from Behlen, Athadra brought home half of whatever spoils the Grey Wardens discovered in the liberated dwarven settlements. Those riches helped to finance Redcliffe's recovery, and absorb the expense of equipping and training so many new recruits. The benefits to roads, bridges, town constabularies, and other areas of life for the teyrnir's peasants also helped improve the Wardens' popularity, even if many of the Chantry's clerics subtly whispered against the maleficar who claimed to lead them. Nevertheless, Athadra kept a relentless pace of activity over the next two years, fighting against darkspawn and brigands and any who sought to oppose her, even as she treated friends and allies generously. There were never fewer than two platoons of Wardens in the Deep Roads, often made up of the freshest recruits, though by the time they emerged from beneath the ground, each Warden could claim to be a veteran against the darkspawn.

Over those two years, King Behlen reliably established an empire beyond Orzammar's gates. Such a prestigious achievement allowed him the breathing space he needed to keep tinkering with dwarven social customs; he even opened a Circle beneath the ground, where any mage might come to study, completely free of templar or Chantry oversight. Athadra suspected his goal was to recapitulate the work of the ancient Paragon, Carridin, who learned how to forge enormous golems from dead stone and living flesh...but the dwarven king's motives and actions were no more objectionable than her own. She had, after all, awakened what the Grey Wardens believed to be one of the last two Old Gods. That was why the Kirkwall Chantry had to fall; it was why Meredith Stannard had to die, and templar power in Kirkwall had to be broken. For underneath that ancient city had slumbered Lusacan, the Dragon of Night, encased in a magical ward threaded through the streets and buildings of Kirkwall itself. Destroying the Chantry had broken the ward, and exposed Lusacan to the darkspawn waiting to wake her. The time could never be more ripe, with so few darkspawn left from the Fifth Blight...with so many nations even doubting that the Fifth Blight had occurred at all, owing to its brevity and relative lack of destruction. If the Grey Wardens waited for another four centuries, or five, or ten...there might not be any Grey Wardens left when those dragons finally rose out of the ground on their own. Centuries had passed after the Fourth Blight; so many years that the surface world imagined the threat had passed for good and all. It was only by the sheerest luck that the right people had risen up against Urthemiel, at the right time, with enough of a lingering memory of the Blights to make a difference...and even then, they had been at the whims of history, with Sophia Dryden's folly and two centuries of darkness behind them. Against those odds, Athadra had proven herself more than a match for men and darkspawn and archdemons, for templars and politicians and ravenous spirits. During her trip to the Anderfels years before, Athadra had attempted to convince First Warden Johanus to endorse her plan to initiate the Sixth, and hopefully final, Blight.

However, despite the elf's passion, despite her reputation and her undeniable prowess, the Warden leadership in Weisshaupt was less than enthusiastic about her plan. Johanus and his immediate lieutenants hadn't denied the appeal of manufacturing a crisis, but they counseled patience, likely too mindful of the Wardens' tenuous position in Ferelden and Thedas in general. But Athadra could only be patient for so long; she simply did not trust her prospective successors, untold centuries thence, to be properly equipped for the same task. One way or another, the Blights would end. Athadra would make certain of that, even without Johanus' sanction. Not that her own Wardens even knew about the conspiracy, much less the trouble that their Commander courted with the First Warden; in the whole of the world, only eight people-nine, if you counted the Architect-had any notion of Athadra's designs, and not even Nathaniel nor Zevran knew the true depths of Athadra's betrayal. She would lead an army to the gates of the Black City, if that was what it took. There was only one rule of engagement that mattered to her.

_In war, __victory_.

oOoOo

_Redcliffe Castle_

_4 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

Athadra pressed the griffon stamp into the hot wax, sealing her coded letter to Weisshaupt, which should have concluded the day's business. As always, it gave no hint that the Commander knew anything about Kirkwall, nor about the odd thickening of darkspawn beneath the Free Marches; both she and the First Warden could pretend mutual ignorance, at least for the time being. Just when she'd risen from her desk, before she'd turned toward her bedchamber, a soft knock echoed through the thick wood of the antechamber's main door. "Commander," came the muffled plea, its voice unidentifiable but high-pitched. "A visitor from Highever here to see you."

The Commander sucked in a breath through her teeth; her relationship with Fergus had never been particularly _good_, despite the conciliatory face each put on for the Landsmeet. Ferelden's other teyrn somehow had never forgiven her for Oghren's decision to put one of his villages to the torch, in the aftermath of the Mother's demise and the chaos which ensued amongst the two factions of sentient darkspawn. Nevertheless, the simmering resentment that lay between her and Fergus had never broken into open hostilities. "Enter," Athadra allowed, after a sigh. She had yet to divest herself of arms or armour, despite the lateness of the hour, and she made no move to do so at this unexpected interruption.

The door opened to reveal Nhysa, one of the Antivan Wardens who'd come to offer her counsel on managing the increase in her ranks. "Arlessa Delilah Howe requests an audience on behalf of Teyrn Fergus," she pronounced, her tones subtly clipped by her mother tongue. "Apologies for the lack of forewarning, Commander."

Athadra arched a brow, her blood-coloured eyes flicking behind the tall woman's shoulder, to the civilian who lingered behind her. "Delilah," she breathed, nodding her welcome. "Please, come in." She hadn't seen the woman in years, not since Delilah had taken over Athadra's position as Arlessa of Amaranthine, unless you counted the Landsmeets that called them both to Denerim. Athadra never did, since she hadn't mingled more than a cordial greeting with the woman there.

Nhysa gave a curt nod and stepped aside, making room for the noblewoman to step through the doorway. "It is good to see you, Champion," Delilah said, by way of introduction. Unlike the Commander, she was dressed in fine velvets and tough leathers, traveling clothes of a cut befitting both her noble station and her hardy heritage. She used Athadra's preferred title amongst non-Wardens, which reflected the elf's efforts in this very village nearly a decade before. "I am truly sorry to be disrupting your evening like this, but I have an important message to relay on behalf of Teyrn Fergus."

Athadra's lips twisted into something above a smirk. "If it were _that_ important," she clipped, "Cousland could've come himself." She inclined her head toward a pair of chairs by the fireplace, a tongue of power licking over the cold logs until they crackled to life-Wardens burned hotter than civilians, which had come in handy for Athadra and Alistair over that first, desperate winter during the Fifth Blight, but left her chambers quite uncomfortable for untainted guests calling more recently. "You're welcome to sit, if you like," the Commander offered, her booted feet whispering over the hardwood floors until she reached a weapon rack. She hung up the two-handed greatblade she'd had forged to replace _Starfang_, the dead weapon she'd left impaled on the flagstones of the Gallows, and she followed suit with the belt that held her two sheathed longswords and the pair of daggers which lay crossed at the small of her back. Her boots still held a trio of shankers apiece...more than enough for a meddling noblewoman, should circumstances require. When the Commander turned to face her guest, she saw that Delilah hadn't moved from the entryway, and the elf nodded in acknowledgement of the other woman's wariness. "Out with it, then," Athadra rasped, her scarred cheek clefting with a grimace. "What's Fergus want?"

"The teyrn has remarried," Delilah announced, and then she swallowed. "He is planning a banquet in his wife's honour, to celebrate their new union."

The news was unexpected, but hardly of concern to the Commander; she viewed issues of marriage and succession as an Orlesian might view a mabari's pedigree. And yet the arlessa's very presence bespoke expectation, duties of title and rank which had little to do with the ruthless calculus of the Wardens' ceaseless war. "He wants me to come," she pronounced, flatly, rolling her shoulders beneath her plate armour.

Delilah inclined her head, though she didn't lower her gaze...not that Athadra blamed her, necessarily; despite the man's crimes, Rendon Howe had been her father, and Athadra had helped to kill him in his own house. "Teyrn Fergus would be honoured if you would attend, Champion," the arlessa said. "In fact, the celebrations are awaiting your reply to commence."

The Commander took a long, steadying breath, letting her eyelids flutter closed upon her exhale. She really didn't have time for this distraction...but she'd invited it, by manoeuvring herself into the Fereldan nobility once more. She owed it to Alistair's faith in her success, not to mention the rest of her Wardens. "Very well," Athadra conceded, settling her blood-coloured eyes on the human woman yet again. "Go collect your brother; we'll leave at first light, tomorrow."

oOoOo

_Highever Castle_

_8 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

After three days ahorse, the Wardens and Arlessa Delilah crossed beneath the portcullis of the Cousland seat of power in mid-afternoon, and by sunset, the long-awaited feast had been called. The banquet was lavishly set, filled with sumptuous dishes both local and exotic; heavy spices scented the air, both from the food and from burning tapers set above the dining hall's braziers. Northern herbs hung thick beneath the ceiling, from Antiva and from Rivain, even from the far isles ruled by the Qunari. Minor nobles from select corners of Highever lined the long table; Athadra knew some of their faces from the Landsmeet, and even a name or two, but most were strangers to her. None from the bannorn, nor even from Amaranthine, save Delilah herself. The least familiar figure was that of Fergus' new bride, a dark beauty from Rivain whom he'd introduced to them as the Lady Daya Ashanti, daughter of the Betwadad of Dairsmuid-something like the Rivaini equivalent of an arl. The woman spoke little, allowing Fergus to offer his apologies and explanations at the commencement of the meal. He'd married in haste, in love, after too long spent mourning the loss of his first wife to Rendon Howe's treachery. He formally welcomed Athadra, Nathaniel, and Delilah to the feasting table, declaring in front of all of his vassals and before Andraste Herself that he bore no living soul any ill-will, and bidding his guests eat and drink their fill.

Athadra sat at the end opposite the teyrn and his bride, flanked by Delilah and Nathaniel. In contrast to the nobles' finery, the Wardens wore the arms and armour they'd come with, though Nathaniel's ancestral bow was left quiverless as a sign of respect for their host; Athadra had made no such concession, and none had risen too strenuous an objection when Fergus communicated his confidence in his colleague. After a brief interlude during which the Commander witnessed each and every civilian chew and swallow their first bites, she and Nathaniel attacked the bounty with only slightly less than their usual Warden-appetite-driven frenzy, to the tense and tittered amusement of a few brave banns in attendance.

The Commander noticed that Daya ate much more sparingly than the others, and sipped water instead of the strong wine which kept filling most of the other cups. Curiosity as much as suspicion drove the elf's scrutiny over the richly-appointed table, her crimson eyes narrowing and then closing as she tried to reach across the distance with a tongue of her magic, only to feel her mind scrape across the inside of her skull and her veins tense with fettered potential. The din of conversation and strumming music dimmed as Athadra took a deep breath, trying yet again to summon a tendril of arcane energy, only to have the effort gutter and fail, beneath even her nearest neighbours' notice.

"What have you done, Fergus?" Athadra wondered, under her breath, too low for the teyrn to pick up from across the room. But when she opened her eyes, she found his gaze already resting heavily upon her, unease bleeding through the mask of his face. Swallowing, the Warden shook her head as if to clear it, and she brought her goblet of wine up to her lips once again. Rather than drain it, however, the elf smelt deeply of its contents, her nose shielded from the heady blanket of incense and pepper...and there, beneath the sour tang of fermented grapes, Athadra sensed the barest acrid hints of corrupted lyrium. She grimaced, stood, and tossed the goblet down onto the table all at once. "_Magebane_," she pronounced, loudly enough to override the shocked gasps of Fergus' constituents. "You will explain," the Warden went on, when Nathaniel rose by her side. "And then we shall leave here unmolested."

She knew that would not happen when most of the guests' eyes flicked, not to their host, but to a mustachioed man in the centre of the table, his back to the chamber's broad hearth. Like the rest, he was dressed finely, though his clothes were thicker and more covering; a second glance told Athadra that they likely concealed some kind of armour, expertly hidden beneath the cloth. "I am afraid the scheme was mine," the still-unnamed man admitted, after patting the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "The teyrn is quite blameless, Champion."

The wine and the mage poison were nearly enough to make the Warden's head spin, but she held her ground, sweeping her gaze over the table. Other than Fergus and his new bride (if she was truly even that), only three faces betrayed true fear, and each of those she recognised in passing; the dozen who remained were as tense and eager as they were unknown to Athadra. She only knew one kind of person who could wear such an expression at the prospect of facing a hostile mage, even one handicapped by magebane. With a grunt, she diverted her blood-coloured eyes back to the man with the moustache. "What's your name, templar? Who sent you?"

Amusement coloured the corners of the man's mouth. "You are mistaken," he told her, chidingly, as though joining in a bit of dinnertable gossip. "Though I suppose I can forgive you your ignorance, for it is not terribly far from the truth." He sat forward, planting his elbows on the table, bracketing his untouched meal, his right hand closing around his left fist. "My name is Lambert van Reeves, and you have gained my attention."

_Not templars, then,_ Athadra understood. "Lord Seeker," she pronounced, inclining her head, though she did not lower her eyes. Her own hands remained loose at her sides, mere inches from the hilts of her longswords, though she made no move to aggression. Delilah's gasp of surprise was echoed by the true nobles around the table, telling the Warden that they'd known little enough of this conspiracy; if not for Nathaniel's presence, she mightn't have cared one way or another, but he had earned the right to keep from watching his sister get murdered unjustly. "Take Delilah and go," she told her lieutenant, still without moving her gaze.

"Commander," Nathaniel growled; it was not a capitulation, nor even an acknowledgement, but rather a skeptical challenge. From the corner of her eye, Athadra saw that he'd taken his pair of long daggers in hand. "You cannot ask me to abandon you to these-"

"I ain't asking," she gruffed, breaking her staring contest to sweep a scalding glance around the scant innocents still sitting, even as the infiltrators began to rise.

The Lord Seeker remained seated. "And what makes you believe they will be allowed to leave, Champion?"

Athadra counted seventeen Seekers around the table; the number of true enemies was very likely double that, at least. "Because if they ain't, then Fergus and his guests won't be, either." She locked eyes with van Reeves, and she saw nothing in his gaze, a veneer of perfect calm that betrayed no comprehension-or at least no entertainment-of the logic she'd offered him. "I'm perfectly willing to murder Fergus, his wife, and everybody in between; on the other hand, we can let these innocent people go before we proceed."

"To clarify," the Lord Seeker ventured, arching a calculated brow. "You are not offering your surrender, but rather a battle on less favourable terms on your part?" He stroked his moustache, narrowing his eyes at her simple nod. "To what purpose, Champion? Surely you cannot expect me to believe you are willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of this one pitiful civilian?" The man tipped his nose to Delilah, at the Commander's side, though his gaze never wavered from the one-eared elf.

His use of the word _civilian_ betrayed an intimate knowledge of Grey Warden nomenclature, for that was how the order referred to anyone who hadn't taken the cup. The slip was certainly intentional, meant to give the impression of a much deeper familiarity with customs and practices that were supposed to be secret in the utmost. "No," Athadra conceded, keeping her voice as even as she could. "But your quarrel is with me, not with Nathaniel. He will walk from here." She could guess the Seekers' true purpose in this place...retribution for Kirkwall, for murdering hundreds of Chantrymen and women over the course of her tenure as a Grey Warden, for being a mage unwilling to bow. Nathaniel had given up his family's name, given up his own need to avenge his father's death, given up years of his life in service to her plans. As ruthless as those designs might have seemed, the Commander would not see her Warden-Constable pay for her crimes.

Nathaniel growled in protest, but Athadra cut it short with a swift glance, which momentarily broke her eye contact with her accusers. The sacrifice was enough to still the man's tongue, and though he obviously still disagreed, he also knew that she would not moderate her command for him to flee. In the instant it took the Commander to regain the Lord Seeker's gaze, she saw that his mask of serenity had threatened to slip, but he schooled his features even as he rose to his own feet. "Very well," he finally acceded. "Your pet may leave unimpeded, and the nobles here may retire elsewhere."

The Warden nodded. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up with her left hand to her ear, and she grasped the hoop of gold that her would-be assassin had placed there. She tore the ring from her flesh with a short, sudden _jerk_, her face betraying no hint of the sting that the injury imparted, nor the surge of pleasure in her veins at the teardrops of blood which wept onto her neck and shoulder. Without turning, Athadra held out the bloodied keepsake to her lieutenant. "See this gets back to its owner, with my regrets."

"Commander," Nathaniel rasped, a fraction more agreeably this time.

From the edge of her vision, Athadra saw a deeper question on his face. The same blood flowing from her ear also coursed within Nathaniel's veins, and it took hardly any effort to reach across the inches with her mind. _No_, she whispered, through her blood. _You have much bigger concerns than revenge_. _Don't bring this to __Alistair_. Her lieutenant had always been practical, from his counsel in Amaranthine to spare the Architect's life to his willingness to entertain the Kirkwall plot, despite his own reasoned misgivings in both instances. He knew better than most that it would do Ferelden no good to fall into another civil war just when a Blight was building. So, despite (or perhaps because of) his surprising loyalty to his Commander, Nathaniel took up her ring and stalked out of the dining hall, his sister at his side, as Fergus and his true vassals retired from the other end of the room. "Now," the Commander wondered, taking a solid step backward from the laden table and reaching toward the hilt of her greatblade. "Are we ready to begin?"


	3. In Death, Sacrifice

Author's note: Thanks so much to my excellent beta-reader, **clafount**, for looking this over. I love reviews, so feel free to tell me what you think!

* * *

_Highever Castle_

_8 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

"Now," the Warden wondered, taking a solid step backward from the laden table and reaching toward the hilt of her greatblade. "Are we ready to begin?" In response, van Reeves tore open his fancy overcoat, buttons snapping in staccato rhythm. He gestured to his underlings as he shrugged out of the garment, revealing a thick breastplate, etched with the blazing eye of his order-within-an-order. At his behest, the less-armoured men moved to push the great table against the side wall, leaving the hall more open. Athadra had backed herself near a corner by then, and she was almost certain it hid no secret passages to take her by surprise. "You'll need more than these rawboned boys and old men," she warned the Seeker, "if you hope to walk out of here tomorrow."

The boast must've sounded empty, even desperate, to at least one of her aspiring attackers. Flaxen-haired, with a wisp of a moustache that couldn't hide the pockmarks which creased with his sneer, the young man broke off from his fellows to take a menacing step forward. "You'll be dead soon enough," he spat at her, in an Orlesian-accented King's Tongue. "You bi-"

"_Anselme_," the Lord Seeker reproved, just as the boy had half-drawn a long dagger from beneath his mail-lined dinner coat. "You should not be so anxious to meet the Maker quite yet."

"Don't worry, boy," Athadra assured the petulant lad as she unsheathed her greatblade and felt its wakening brush of mana surge up her arms, tugging at her own magebane-depleted energy. "If you want it so bad, I can kill you first." Her ear was still dripping furtively, her own blood eager to escape the confines of her veins now that she'd given it an opening.

Though cowed, the lad was not broken. "You are but one maleficar," Anselme pointed out. "We stand twelve Seekers against you, with two dozen more waiting for the Lord Seeker's watchword."

Athadra inclined her head in acknowledgement, the movement far too shallow to be misconstrued as a bow. "And how many of your tin-tops have killed a god, boy?"

A spasm of horror and hatred twitched over the young Seeker's features. "You dare blaspheme, hold yourself-"

"_I believe she refers to the archdemon,_" van Reeves cut in, speaking in Orlesian, which he must've known Athadra understood perfectly. "_And her own actions in seeing it out of the __skies_." He still had not drawn a weapon, and neither had any of the other ten Seekers; the necessity of stealth had kept any of them from bearing any weapons greater than a dagger.

The Warden doubted that any of the Seekers waiting in the wings would be similarly unencumbered. "_You never answered my question, Lord Seeker_," she prompted him in Orlesian, digging her unshielded palms into the thick leather of her greatblade's hilt as the scab just beginning to crust on her ear tore wider of its own accord, sending a another shower of crimson coursing down her neck, and her blood-coloured irises flashed dangerously. "_Are we ready to begin_?"

The gasps of the Seekers were all the answer she needed, for when they saw the red mist rising from Athadra's wounded ear to hang in a faint haze about her upper body, their worst fears were confirmed. Though Anselme had put voice to the entire Chantry's concerns in naming her a maleficar, having such an accusation proven before their very eyes must have removed any hope that she would surrender. In the interstitial instant before audible shock and fear transmuted into rage and determination, Athadra launched herself away from the wall, bringing her thick sword down in a swift, tight arc. Fueled by blood and brute strength, the Warden's sword cleaved into Anselme's left shoulder, breaking through mail and bone, slicing through marrow and flesh, until a brilliant gout of crimson sprayed out of the gory chasm from where the blade had bisected the boy's heart. Athadra's scream was not forceful enough to keep the blood from touching her tongue as it sprayed across her face, and she did not even bother to hide the pleasure she took in tasting the salted copper.

It took the Warden's boot to Anselme's abdomen and a grunted _yank_ to pull her blade free of his torso, but in the end the boy fell without even a gurgled whimper, his surprised rictus frozen beneath the wisps of his moustache. Athadra did not pause to exult in her fulfilled promise, instead swinging her blade in a wide, low arc to scatter three Seekers who'd gathered their wits a bit more quickly than their comrades. They scrambled backward, but Athadra did not offer pursuit, turning her attention to van Reeves and the other Seekers in the chamber. There were the seven who'd sat through supper, of course, but now more Seekers filed into the room, Seekers properly armed and armoured. The Lord Seeker had acquired a greatblade that appeared an even match for the Warden's, well-used and even better cared for. If the man was dismayed at losing a promising cadet, he gave no outward sign, only nodding to his surviving subordinates in muted command.

Athadra did not retreat back to her corner, did not invite the Seekers to come to their deaths in twos and threes against the superior reach and heft of her weapon. A soldier might have considered that sound tactic, but Athadra was not a soldier; she was a warlord, and a Grey Warden besides, a veteran of more battles against men and beasts than many generals would ever have to face. If there was one thing she'd taken out of the Deep Roads, it was the knowledge that the centre of a horde was often safer than the fringe; not only did it rob the enemy of a united focal point, the position gave no retreat to the surrounded, and so left them no excuse to hold back in the struggle. Athadra had a further advantage not felt amongst the hordes of the Deeps, as well...for her enemies this night were all human, all known to one another, and all the more reluctant to swing wildly and risk injuring their comrades. Thus the Warden rushed to meet her attackers head-on, charging into their midst with a flurry of swings and a fine sheen of blood.

The Lord Seeker did not forge through his troops to join her in personal combat, to Athadra's slight disappointment; Meredith Stannard hadn't shied back from the elven Warden's blade, and neither had Loghain Mac Tir, years before. But van Reeves appeared older than either of them, perhaps wiser, evidently content to witness the glory from a metre's distance if it assured him his aims. Athadra could not long reflect on this insight, both because of her nature and because she was too busy making sure the Lord Seeker's underlings paid for every single hair's breadth of that metre.

Helmless and shorter than her assailants, the Warden might have kept her guard high to protect her neck and head, but Athadra was too busy attacking. Her sword channelled lightning which danced along the arc of her swings, burning the flesh and blood that her strikes exposed in the relatively-unarmoured Seekers. Unlike their commander, their courage was impeccable, for even after the fourth of their number fell to the Warden, the dinner's attendees did not break to flee behind the shields of their more well-protected brethren. Athadra's sword severed limbs, scraped over throats, turned aside deadly counterstrikes so that they landed on other Seekers' armour. All the while, ropes of her enemies' blood swirled over and around Athadra, ripped painfully from their wounds by the sheer force of her will.

Nine solid years of fighting for her life gave the elven Warden an edge rarely seen in mages who found themselves set upon by templars, and it soon became clear to the Seekers that their superior numbers had not been an abundance of caution.

From the corner of her eye, Athadra caught sight of an enormous Seeker raising a warhammer, looking to end the struggle before any more of his fellows succumbed. At the opposite edge of her vision, across the carnage of the battle she fought, the Warden noticed van Reeves' neck tightening, his face breaking into a desperate snarl. "_Vivante!_"

That single word gave the larger Seeker a heartbeat's pause, and that was enough for Athadra; she bulled her shoulder into the flank of the shorter man who stood between them and spun with such force that her blade bit through the hammer-wielding Seeker's flank, cleaving through thick plate as though it were paper. She buried the sword so deeply in the man's gut that his legs collapsed beneath him, dragging the sword's hilt out of her grip.

Without pausing to think, Athadra leapt into a roll, barely escaping a pair of swords that crossed one another in her sudden absence. If the surviving Seekers thought their troubles were over now that the Warden was disarmed, they were quickly made to reconsider, for as she regained her feet and turned, Athadra drew the twin longswords that she wore at her belt. They were same weapons she'd picked up in the Denerim cache of Grey Warden supplies at the Landsmeet. Unlike Starfang, which she'd left buried in the floor of the Gallows, these swords had never left her sight. With them she'd slain Teyrn Loghain. She'd driven the left-hand blade through the archdemon's eye atop Fort Drakon; with the right, she'd slit the Mother's throat in the Deeps beneath Amaranthine while the city smouldered in ruins. Myriad darkspawn, templars, and even other mages had fallen to their honed edges; the blood channelled through their beveled fullers comprised gallons beyond the counting. She wielded them as easily as her own limbs, and she rejoined the Seekers in a whirlwind of snarling ferocity that sent cries of surprise and pain and not a little terror echoing off of the chamber's blood-spattered walls.

Despite Athadra's inestimable courage, however, she knew there was no winning this battle. Along with the clash of swords, the ringing of shields, and the grunting rhythm of battlecries and shouts, the Warden heard the Lord Seeker's final word echoing in the recesses of her mind. _Vivante_. _Alive_. It meant that Lambert van Reeves had prepared to sacrifice as many of his own forces as it would take to make sure to take her that way. And as the floor grew slick with the blood of the Seekers, too much blood even for Athadra to take advantage of, the doors showed no signs of ceasing the steady flow of reinforcements to replace the lost.

An errant thought crossed her mind, that she might turn her blades on herself, to make sure to upset the Lord Seeker's plans. She had seen enough of the Fade to know that the spirits of the dead did not truly walk there, and nothing in her studies led her to expect that death would be anything but the Void, the cessation of all things. Such thoughts terrified many of the faithful, but the finality of death held no terror for the Warden; it would mean the end to pain, the trivial physical hurts and the deeper wounds her heart and soul had sustained over the course of her bloody life. Yet still she fought on, even when her veins ached from the blood pushed out and drawn into them, even as each swing came more slowly than the last, even when she lost her swords through the visors of her opponents' helmets, even when she had to draw the long pair of daggers she kept crossed at the back of her belt...the ones she'd reclaimed from the ogre who'd slain Duncan on the cold field of Ostagar, so long ago. After those slipped from her grasp, Athadra kept fighting, through four of the six stiletto shankers that she kept in her boots.

And then, when there are but six battle-worn Seekers left of the dozens that came to Highever, the Lord Seeker finally stepped forward. Gasping raw, ragged breaths, Athadra knelt to retrieve her final pair of shankers, but she was too slow, too exhausted to rise in time. "Now," van Reeves rumbled in his perfect Fereldan accent, raising his sword high until the banded copper ball at the bottom of his pommel shone with reflected firelight, "we are ready to begin."

oOoOo

The knock on the door was as soft as a whisper, but that was shock enough after the carnage that only recently echoed through the castle's halls. "It is done," Fergus breathed, looking up from his lap.

"No, my heart," Daya replied, giving her husband a mournful look as she slid off the great bed and onto her feet. "For me, the trial has only begun."

He was at her side in a heartbeat, his grip firm but guarded on her upper arm. "Are you certain there is no other way, my love?"

Her answer was pre-empted by another knock, more urgent this time, accompanied by words too muffled by the thick wood to make out properly. Daya offered her husband a calming smile and a pat on his soft shoulder, which had once been so strong. "I must go, Fergus."

The teyrn's fingers remained closed around her arm for another moment, but then he relented, rocking back on his heels until he fell onto the place she'd just vacated, at the foot of the bed. "Go, then," he said, his eyes slipping to the floor. "But should you not return…"

"Then I pray you one day find a love as pure as that which we have shared, my heart," Daya told him, swallowing her nerves. She had faced worse than what was coming, but not recently, and not often; the streets of Kont-aar weren't nearly as orderly as the city's Qunari council leaders pretended, especially for an unchained _saarebas_. But Daya had clawed her way out of those slums, and she would see her way through this, even if the cost was already higher than she wished to consider.

The third round of knocking sounded as she pushed up the crossbeam that would have delayed a concentrated assault by a few mere minutes. "Apologies for the delay," she offered, when the door opened to reveal a blood-soaked warrior standing haggardly, his armour scored with deep scars, a few of which still faintly wept. "Gerard," Daya whispered hoarsely, once she'd shut the door behind her and recognised his face beneath the new lacerations and sheets of crimson that obscured his features. "She is...detained?"

"Yes, my lady," the Seeker allowed, his voice tinged with respect she'd never earned, underneath echoes of exhaustion. "Though I fear your new home may...never recover." He stumbled into a slow walk, but when Daya moved to steady him, the man flinched away. "No, my lady," he growled. "There is...corruption in the blood," Gerard explained. "You must take care to avoid it at all costs."

She understood his meaning at once, and she had to suppress a shudder at the implications as she fell into step beside the Seeker. "Even if you would allow it, then, you are beyond my skill."

It wasn't a question, and so Gerard did not provide an answer. "I will soon join too many of my brethren," he said, instead. "Already I can feel my veins beginning to light afire from within." He was grim, resigned, but his tone held notes of respect, perhaps even admiration, and Daya knew that tone was not directed at her.

If she lived a dozen lifetimes, Daya would never comprehend the foolish currency of honour that warriors traded, even unto death. She followed the doomed Seeker through the corridor and into the Great Hall. Before crossing the threshold, she tried to clear her mind of the placid room where she'd taken so many meals in peace by her husband's side, but despite her best efforts, the mage couldn't hold back a pained gasp at the devastation which greeted her upon entrance. She regretted it immediately, for the stench of blood and death already choked the room; if Daya had broken her fast, she would certainly render it up in tribute to the fallen. "Spirits," she whispered, momentarily forgetting herself.

Forty-four Seekers had come to Highever over the past few months, and every single one of them was in the Great Hall now. Faces of men she had feared and secretly hated stared out at nothing, masks of waxen agony coloured with cold blood. The Lord Seeker and three of his five surviving companions-not counting Gerard-heaved a body onto the growing pile in the centre of the chamber; many were missing limbs, and more than one had had their bellies opened, adding to the miasma. Deducting the living from the total, Daya reasoned that thirty-seven rested among the dead.

"This was the work of but one mage?" She asked, through the fingers she'd clapped over her nose and mouth.

The Lord Seeker came to stand before the new arrivals, his heavy gaze falling upon Gerard, as though the mage had not spoken. "Sit, my friend," he pronounced, gesturing to the far wall. The banquet table had been pushed flush against it, and the two idle warriors convalesced on the fine furniture as though it were a hospital bed. Only once Gerard offered a feeble salute and dragged himself away did the Lord Seeker turn his eyes onto Daya. "This was the work of a monster in the form of a mage," he told her, his moustache curling with his distaste. "Whom you must pray has been weakened as thoroughly as she appears."

Daya cast her eyes down and away from the Lord Seeker's face, unable to withstand his intense scrutiny, and finally she caught a glimmer of crimson and silver from the corner of her eye. Turning carefully to avoid a puddle of blood settling between two flagstones, the mage did not immediately recognise the sight before her. At first glance the figure appeared to be a poorly-hung suit of armour, held fast against the stone by iron spikes which had been driven through the joints, the arms spread wide and shins overlapping. But that first impression was instantly swept away by streams of crimson which painted the wall from the suit's forearms, elbows, shoulders, and calves. The shadow obscuring the armour's crest resolved into a tangle of sweat- and blood-soaked hair.

She hardly noticed the Lord Seeker's whispered orders to his ambulatory subordinates, nor their limping from the room, for the head beneath that mass of black hair slowly lifted. Daya stood, transfixed, as the captive woman's face revealed itself; one blood-coloured eye, the Warden's right, cast a look of burning hatred toward her observer. The left half of her face was a disgusting ruin of flesh and blood that seeped from a hollow socket. The Warden took a slow, rattling breath, and Daya sensed the faintest flicker of mana guttering beneath her ruined flesh. "Now…" the elf rasped, thickly. "Or later?"

Her lucidity was surprising, given the circumstances. Daya was quite certain she hadn't ever seen anyone as close to death, yet still tenaciously clinging to their last moments. "I'm afraid I do not understand your question, Champion," the human mage allowed, unable to look away from the horror of the elf's injuries.

The Warden's head lolled, settling back down until her chin rested against her breastplate. "Now or later," she repeated, even more hoarsely. "Kill me...die now. Save me...die later," she managed. "You choose."

"She means," the Lord Seeker prompted, his voice startling Daya into a flinch, "that you can kill her now and die by my hand, or you may proceed with the Rite of Tranquility, and one day die by hers. I promise you, it is an empty threat."

Daya took another look about herself, at the pile of bodies and the detritis of their constituent parts, and she shuddered. "I am not certain-"

"I am," the Lord Seeker interjected. "If you do not abide by the terms we agreed upon, you shall take Athadra's place."

A gurgling, fricative noise issued out from the wall, and it took Daya a moment to recognise that the dying elf was actually _laughing_. "Let me die," she insisted, unable-or perhaps unwilling-to raise her head to issue the entreaty.

Daya sensed the precariousness of her position, but even though the Warden was bleeding her last few drops right before the human's eyes, even though the brush of her mana was as intangible as a bolt of gossamer fabric, Daya was still wary of approaching her. The Lord Seeker looked on, expectant and exhausted. Had she more than an ounce of bravery, Daya might try to slit the man's throat herself...but she had gained and lost too much to throw her life away, to break her promise to her beloved Fergus. So the human mage took as deep a breath as she could manage in this charnel house, and she sent a few cool tendrils of her magic to probe along the Warden's flesh. "She is very near death," Daya said. "Each heartbeat robs her of blood. If I do not heal her, she will not survive the Rite."

"Do it, then," the man allowed. "Seal her wounds as best you can from afar."

Gathering what courage she could muster, Daya closed her eyes, pushing her magical limbs deeper into the Warden's tissues. Healing was always a tricky business; most mundanes imagined it a refreshing experience, or at the very least a relieving one...but the opposite was true almost every time. Injuries could be closed and ailments ameliorated, to be sure, but such a benefit did not come without cost to the recipient, nor to the enchanter. This time was no exception, and as Daya guided her arcane energy to knit the Warden's flesh and bones around the very implements that had rent them to begin with, she felt an echo of the pain that the elf must feel. Though the sensation was hardly a glimmer of the real thing, Daya felt her arms and legs burn from the inside out, and an intense pressure behind her left eye. She swooned, hissing from the budding agony, but the Lord Seeker's naked hands closed about her shoulders to keep her afoot.

"Take care you do not open your own flesh," he cautioned. "This one is quite adept at hijacking the very blood from your veins."

"I remember your earlier warnings," the mage assured him, doing her best not to bristle beneath his grasp. Clearing her mind, Daya carefully finished sealing the Warden's wounds, so that the last of her lifeblood would not drain out onto the floor; the woman's work would be undone once the stakes were drawn from the elf's flesh, with survival even less likely afterward, but Daya would settle that account when the time came. The Warden hadn't even grunted, either unconscious or too inured by the agony she'd already experienced to respond. "I believe she is stable enough, Lord Seeker."

The Lord Seeker released the human mage without even a nod, turning to the door just as two of his subordinates muscled a sizeable cistern into the room. The sight of the great stone basin made Daya's heart flutter, but she did not move as the men carefully picked their way between her and the Warden, she did not flinch when the heavy burden rasped on the flagstones of the floor, and though her eyes stung, she did not scream after the Seekers removed the cistern's covering and the metallic tang of liquid lyrium overpowered the more macabre stink that she was just beginning to grow accustomed to.

The Seekers retreated a handful of paces, though all of them readied their weapons. "You know what must be done," the Lord Seeker intoned, lifting his bloodstained broadsword. "Have you any final reservations?"

Daya shook her head, slowly, staving off a frown until she'd turned her back on the armed men. "Maker," she prayed, "give me strength." Appealing to the warriors' god was for their benefit and her continued survival, but she didn't think any prayers would go amiss at the moment. Swallowing with difficulty, the mage took a single step forward, driving her hand up to her forearm into the basin of lyrium. Its power roiled, crawling up her limb, reawakening the phantom aches that her healing had bestowed. Her eyes locked onto the crown of the Warden's bowed head as darkness consumed her vision from the edges inward, until her world entailed a single point of off-black light.

Every mage reacted differently to entering the Fade. Some came awake all at once, while others poured into their dream-selves like a trickle of wine. Daya was of the latter sort; first her ears opened to the distorted sighs of the land beyond the Veil, then she felt the breath of the thick air along her skin, and only slowly did the sight return to her eyes. When it did, she saw the sweeping mountains of Highever risen around her, impossibly high and sheer. At the same time she was in a ceilingless parody of the Great Hall, its long table and many chairs floating about in the air. The Warden's figure hung directly before the mage, transparent, the essence of someone between dreams and the shadow of death. Wherever stakes gored her flesh in the waking world, the Warden's astral body was pierced with glowing shafts of light that hurt to look upon, but hurt even more to look away from.

If Daya had reached out in that last moment, touched the Warden as she dipped her hand into the pool of lyrium, then they would both be conscious now, perhaps even able to converse...for all the good that might have done. But instead Daya had been too frightened of a single brush with the other woman's corrupted blood, or perhaps the Seekers' wrath at one simple kindness, and so the elf's last moments as a mage would pass unremarked upon.

Daya took a breath of airless air, clasping her hands before her. She had neither dagger nor staff, and she lacked the skill to conjure them in this place, but she did not need such a gift to do what she must. "I do not expect you to forgive me," she allowed, her voice echoing strangely off the sheer cliff faces that coexisted with the chamber's walls. Her palms parted slightly, and in the gap between them, a thin sheen of arcane energy shimmered. "I have not one-tenth your strength, nor your courage," the mage went on, drawing her hands farther apart, coaxing the conjured energy into a tight sphere. "I am sorry, Champion."

Gritting her teeth, Daya poured all of the mana she could manage into the sphere, until it thrummed and trembled within her grip. With a great effort she pushed it forward, directly into the Warden's translucent chest. The elf shuddered, her head jerking upward, her one eye stretching wide and her mouth gaping with a final breath; the spears of light impaling her arms and legs shifted from a harsh white radiance to a deep violet glow, and that glow rapidly diffused throughout the image of the hanging woman. In only a few seconds nothing remained of the Warden but a spectre of purple, and then there was only a void.

"I am sorry," Daya said again, to herself, utterly alone in the land of spirits.


	4. If I Had A Heart

Author's note: Thanks so much to everyone who's reading and reviewing; I love hearing from you! And thanks especially to **clafount** for taking the time and energy beta-read my scribbles...if you haven't already, you should totally check her stories out!

* * *

_Highever Castle_

_9 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

The pyre had burnt all evening and through the night, giving over to embers only in the small hours just before dawn. Exhaustion weighed Lambert down, but he stood watching, though his two remaining lieutenants had caught a few hours' rest at his unbrookable insistence. _She_ stood beside him, dressed in simple Chantry robes, her hair shorn down to the scalp and the left side of her head covered in bloodied gauze which half-obscured the sunburst brand burnt into her forehead.

"It is nearly time to go," he remarked in Orlesian, when the light of morning became stronger than the glow from the remains of his fallen brothers. She didn't answer him, as indeed she would not unless he gave her a command or asked her a question, but her one remaining eye pivoted to regard him with detached attentiveness. "Had your companion elected to remain," he went on, "it is almost certain that your combined prowess would have thwarted me." He had no trouble admitting that, at least where no others could hear. Any shame he felt was overwhelmed by his curiosity. "Why did you order him to leave?"

"I did not wish him to remain," she replied, her voice a rough monk's chant.

"That raises the obvious question," he pointed out, turning to face her more fully and crossing his arms. "Eventually you will learn when to answer obvious questions without having to be told."

"Yes, Lord Seeker," she chanted at him. Despite common opinion, Tranquil mages were not idiots; indeed, their inner clarity and unparalleled focus allowed them lucid insights beyond any other creatures Lambert had ever encountered. But they assigned no value to their observations, could no longer imagine the facts from another point of view...from _any_ point of view. "If I had succeeded in slaying the lot of you," she went on, "it would only have delayed another such confrontation, and it would likely have resulted in Teyrn Fergus' death. This was not a desired outcome."

Lambert took a breath, considering her words. "Your reputation would have demanded you seek retribution," he pronounced. "For what reason must the teyrn survive?"

"Ferelden must be united," she explained, and when he tipped his head, she continued in the same rough monotone. "Orlais is becoming less stable, the Qunari are beginning preparations for an eventual invasion, and another Blight will soon erupt across the centre of Thedas."

The Lord Seeker was intimately aware of the first fact, and anyone of consequence in Thedas was ever mindful of the second, but the third gave him pause. "My associates in Weisshaupt have made no mention of an impending Blight," he commented, to himself. "How do you know what they do not, Athadra?" He allowed himself the use of her former name, however cruel it might be to maintain the illusion that she was still a person.

"Because," she said, "I have woken the two remaining Old Gods." In the mouth of anyone unkissed by the Chantry's justice, such an admission would have been relayed passionately, likely in a tone feverishly urgent. But the one-eyed elf's monotone did not break, did not give any sign that she was any longer aware of the import of her words.

It was certainly an unexpected bit of news. "I had wondered about your business in Kirkwall," Lambert admitted after he'd taken a moment to process the revelation, frowning deeply and returning his gaze to the smouldering remains of his platoon of men. His own plans would have to be accelerated in the face of this new development. "In time, you shall give me a full accounting of your achievements and designs...but, for the moment, I would like your opinion on something."

"Yes, Lord Seeker," she acknowledged.

"Over the course of our vigil, I have more than once felt tempted to kill you," he allowed. "Unlike you, I am still cursed with the bonds of fraternity, and you slew a great many of my brothers."

"Forty-one," she supplied, neutrally.

He had to take a breath and close his eyes; if he didn't know the better of it, he might be tempted to think she gloated. "Forty-one," he agreed. "Thirty-seven in direct combat, and the balance through the darkspawn taint in your veins." He forced his eyes open once more, forced himself to look upon the embers of his fellows. Even if Athadra did not promise to be a fount of information, he would not allow himself the base satisfaction of revenge; the souls of the dead would not be joyed by her execution. They'd all known the risks, they'd all volunteered to bring her into his service, they'd given their lives to sear the brand into her flesh. "I would learn where I erred, and how I might have kept this pyre from growing so high."

"You erred by not killing me," she told him.

He snorted. "I shall not nullify their sacrifice simply because I loved them," he countered, somewhat heatedly. "Do you not wish to live, even now?"

"I prefer to live, Lord Seeker," she stated, reflexively. "Yet each hour of life you grant me increases the likelihood that I will regain my connection to the Fade, and if that ever happens, I will kill you." Lambert had long thought himself immune to the alien quality of a Tranquil's delivery, long considered himself above surprise at what they might tell him, but a breath of ice tickled up his spine at the clinical prediction. Before he could gather his wits, she went on, dispassionately. "If you prefer to avoid that fate, you should interrogate and then kill me."

The Lord Seeker felt his mouth run dry as he glanced at her; she was a maleficar, a blood mage. It was the little-known reason that Harrowed mages were executed by templars rather than made Tranquil-even Tranquil mages could cast spells with their own blood, when prompted, and templars ever feared the Tranquil using such gifts unsupervised. But Lambert van Reeves was no simple templar...he was Lord Seeker, and he did not fall prey to unfounded paranoia. "You will not kill me," he said, baldly, and then he followed up with "I forbid it," just in case.

She inclined her head, docile as a broken horse. "My sole priority is my own survival," she acknowledged. "Living under your protection is the most likely scenario to prolong my survival, and therefore I must obey."

Lambert nodded, almost satisfied. "Such is the fate of all Tranquil," he said, "until they grow old and die. None has ever been restored." _No mage_, he added, mentally, but the thought did not linger long in his mind, for there were secrets even the Lord Seeker preferred not to think upon too deeply. Yet it was not precisely true that the Rite removed _all_ emotion from its subject...rather, in mages, it turned every thread of thought to fear of death and disobedience most of all, which did much to explain the Tranquil mages' docility. There was no response to his musings from the branded elf, no flicker of disagreement behind that blood-coloured eye...but, then, there wouldn't be. And the Lord Seeker found himself curious as to just how secure the secrets of his Order still were. "Do you know otherwise, Athadra?"

"I suspect otherwise," she replied, after a pause which was longer than it might've been. "A mage in my employ became possessed by a spirit, many years ago," she explained, when he nodded for her to continue. "His associates in Kirkwall described to me an instance in which my friend's presence temporarily restored a Tranquil mage's heart to his mind, though I never investigated the matter further."

That breath of ice returned to Lambert's spine. Twice in one morning, which hadn't happened in quite some time. "Luckily, Tranquil mages are invisible to demons themselves," he pointed out. "So, as long as we do not happen upon any abominations in our travels, I should remain quite safe." Indeed, Tranquil mages had long lived and worked in Circles, places where centuries of concentrated magical exercise had thinned the Veil considerably, and there had never been a recorded instance of a Tranquil being possessed and having their severed magic restored to them. Even the apocalypse of the Fereldan Circle during the Blight had not produced such, and there had been no suspicion generated that Lambert had ever discovered. Still, he thought it best to redirect the conversation. "You have yet to answer my question," he reminded her, frustrated that he was repeating the elf's own words from the beginning of the battle. "How did you defeat so many hardened Seekers?"

"Their training was insufficient," she replied, blinking her single eye.

Lambert arched a brow. "They were the best warriors I could have asked for," he growled, crossing his arms to help combat the urge to draw his sword. "None in Thedas should have stood their equal."

"Except for me," the elf pointed out, placidly. "Your warriors train to hunt mages and fight against templars. Such tactics are unsuited for combating Grey Wardens, especially ones such as I."

That answer was...unsettling, in its sheer mundanity. Part of him had been hoping that the Warden had already been possessed, to fight so valiantly and to nearly succeed against impossible odds. But he knew that hope was foolish, for even in the depths of her desperation, Athadra had not become a twisted abomination as so many other mages had done when facing certain death at the hands of the righteous. Another part of him could not help but admire her resolve in the face of temptation to which so many of her kind all too readily succumbed. "When we arrive at the Spire, you will tell me how the Order might redress the deficiencies in our training," he instructed, with another lingering glance to the smouldering pyre. "Let us go," he decided. "We have a carriage to load and a ship to catch. You might even know of one of its passengers."

She absorbed his command and his comments without retort, turning only when he began to stride away from the remnants of the pyre. She limped, making no complaint; not yet fully healed, it was something of a miracle that she had survived at all, given the gravity of her wounds. The lost eye was beyond the apostate's skill to restore, though that was in some ways the least of her injuries.

Beneath the robe and in addition to the well-worn scars she'd earned since leaving Kinloch Hold, she carried new marks which would pucker her flesh for the rest of her life. Deep fissures in her shoulders, elbows, forearms, and wrists hinted at much greater damage to flesh and bone, and it would be unlikely that she could ever properly wield a pen again, much less a dagger or a sword. Even the most skilled of healers wouldn't be able to make her as she was at the height of her power.

Yet, as they stepped away from the fire and the dawn, Lambert caught a glint in the depths of her right eye that he couldn't quite convince himself was merely a reflection of the morning light, and he had to ignore a third chill in less than an hour to tingle over the base of his spine.

oOoOo

_Royal Palace, Denerim_

_11 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

It still amused Anora that, after nearly a decade of residence in the most well-stocked palace in the country, her husband continued to devour every meal as though he were still the half-starved wastrel traipsing about the countryside with his little sword and bloodthirsty companions. It amused her, but there was disappointment threaded through her amusement, along with touches of anger, though it had been years since she'd given herself over to either. Alistair's appetite was driven not by greed, but by the curse which lurked in his blood, which had already robbed him of any chance of a legacy and would eventually rob her of his presence. That she felt the occasional desire to weep at the prospect of losing him had first come as something of a surprise, given the political foundations of their union and the fact that he was already in love with another woman. But somewhere in the years after Cailan's death by the inaction of her father, after her father's murder by Alistair's leader and friend, after the wedding that saved the country, Anora found the inner distance between her heart and her mind growing short. When she looked at the man now, with his close-cropped beard and the lines just beginning to crease around his eyes, she felt an upwelling of affection which nearly frightened her with its sudden intensity. "Have you made the arrangements for your journey, Alistair?"

The King of Ferelden tried to answer through a mouthful of lamb stew, nearly choked, and had to take several gulps of water before he cleared his throat. "Yes," he managed, and he at least had the wherewithal to look chagrined. "Teagan and I will set out day after tomorrow...if I don't manage to please the Bannorn before then." He coughed again, and then took another great mouthful of stew.

Anora rolled her eyes; she'd longsince abandoned warning him off of such cavalier humour. "And after you tour the Free Marches," she wondered, after chewing methodically through her own bite of stew, "will you be accompanying your uncle to Val Royeaux, or shall the two of you part company?"

Alistair did not attempt a reply at first, but he did give her a measured look as he considered her _true_ question. _Will you see her before you return_? "I think we'll part ways," he settled, and she believed him.

"Then have Teagan send my regards to the empress and the Divine," she told him, her brows drawing together with unfeigned sympathy. Anora should have hated the bard, Leliana, or at least felt indifferent to her continued claim upon Alistair's affections...but since she'd left Denerim, the queen found herself missing the other woman's company and companionship nearly as much as the king must have. "And make certain you come back safely to me." She was not a superstitious woman, but ever since Cailan's father had sailed away and never returned, Anora always worried about journeys by sea. Yet there were Fereldans in Kirkwall, in Ostwick, in Starkhaven and other Marcher cities across the Waking Sea, and Alistair had a duty to see they were well-treated and welcomed home, if they'd a mind to escape the madness that had erupted across the rest of Thedas in the last four years. _Besides_, he'd told her one night, after she'd confided her misgivings, _it's not like I wouldn't rather fly across the ocean on a griffon, if only they hadn't gone and got all extinct. Think of all the wasted potential in being able to swoop into fancy parties unannounced! On a griffon!_ And then he'd held her, and kissed her, and promised to come back.

He looked on the verge of renewing that vow, only to pause, his eyes narrowing as he looked to the drawing room door. A frantic knock was not long in coming. "Beg pardon, Your Majesties," came Telmure's muffled voice, through the thick wood. "But Ser Nathaniel is out here, begging a word. Says it's urgent."

Nathaniel? Anora kept the relief from flickering across her features; if it had to be a Warden, there were few who'd be as welcome as the son of her father's former ally...and she secretly hoped that he had not brought his commander in tow. Alistair was already on his feet, halfway between the doorway and the double-bearded waraxe hanging above the fireplace, as though he might just jot off for a spot of darkspawn killing before bed. Anora barely had time to join him, snatching a napkin off the table as she went and wiping a stray bit of stew from his stubbled chin before he cleared his throat. "Enter," he said, sounding infinitely more regal than Anora could have imagined when she first met him.

The door opened at once, and Anora had to hold back a gasp at the sight that greeted her; Nathaniel was in one piece and visibly unhurt, but he was filthy, his face drawn and hair disheveled, his armour stained with grass and dirt and flecks of rust that told her he'd been traveling for days without taking it off. He half-swooned, half-stepped into the room, and Alistair rushed forward to grab him before he fell. "Thank you," the Warden hissed through cracked lips.

"Please," Anora pressed, "come sit. We've plenty of water and food still."

Nathaniel nodded in gratitude, and the King of Ferelden ambled the Warden over to the seat he'd just vacated a mere moment before. "_Maker_, Nathaniel," he breathed. "What's happened to you? Aren't you supposed to be in Redcliffe?"

The Warden fell heavily into the chair, and his reply was delayed by a deep draught of Alistair's wine. "Thank you, my liege," he sighed. "We were indeed in Redcliffe until quite recently."

Anora's curiosity got the better of her suspicion. "What has happened? What brought you to us in such rough shape?"

Nathaniel inclined his head in a small show of deference, though he did not lower his eyes. "Athadra is...gone."

It was the middle of autumn, so the crackle of the fireplace provided cover for the thick silence which followed the haggard man's pronouncement. Anora blinked several times, while Alistair's brows drew together, almost as though he were reading a table of sums, simply unable to comprehend. "Gone?" He ventured, after a heartbeat, sitting beside his fellow Warden. "On a mission, you mean?"

One of the few gulfs remaining between the king and queen was apparent, at least to Anora, by the latter's willingness to hold out such vain hope for the Champion of Redcliffe; theirs was a bond forged deep in the heat of battle, a friendship that transcended politics and even morality, and the queen did not begrudge her husband the connection...but she saw at once that Nathaniel would not have run himself ragged to relay such a simple message to the pair of them. The Warden did not respond at once, though his cracked lips parted and he seemed on the verge of speech more than once. Eventually he swallowed, slowly shaking his head. "I do not think so," he allowed. "I believe she is dead."

"_What_?!" Alistair stood so suddenly that his chair clattered backward onto the floor. "What do you mean, dead? How could she be dead?"

The man's reply was a heartbeat in coming. "I do not know, my friend," he rasped, and he was _almost_ a good-enough liar for Anora to believe his claim of ignorance. "But I think it's quite likely."

The king began to pace, fidgeting, seeming much more like a nervous boy than the well-seasoned monarch she'd groomed him to be. "She can't be dead," he insisted, throwing a wild look to Anora. "Can she?"

Anora recalled her few private conversations with the Commander of the Grey over the years; not a single one had passed without the credible threat that Athadra would murder her if Anora did not keep the woman's secrets. The novelty had worn off quickly, but the fear had remained, and there were a few things gleaned in those encounters which the queen had not even told her husband. "If you are asking for my opinion," she ventured, choosing her words with care, "I would have to say I am unsurprised. Violent people often encounter violent ends."

A shadow moved in the corner of her vision. "I have known many violent people," the shadow said, its clipped Antivan accent familiar. "Most of them are quite predictable and boring," Zevran continued, stepping into the light of the braziers. He looked heavily from Nathaniel to Alistair and then Anora. "Athadra is quite the opposite of either." His face was a caramel mask, flawless and gleaming, standing in distinction to Nathaniel's unkempt appearance...though the two men's expressions were oddly similar.

"This is…" Alistair began, but he trailed off and then busied himself with righting his chair, though he did not move to reoccupy it.

For her part, Anora gained control of her runaway heartbeat, frightened more than she'd ever admit by the elf's easy appearance in their private chambers. Her husband trusted the assassin, it was true, but Anora could not banish every fragment of suspicion. "Were you attacked?" She asked, her eyes cutting to the Warden. "Are there any other casualties?"

Nathaniel's mask threatened to crack when he looked at her, for just an instant, but he quickly schooled himself. "No," he admitted, shaking his head slowly. "The Commander and I were traveling...alone," he allowed. "The situation became dangerous, and then untenable...and she sacrificed herself, to save me." He shook his head again, firmly enough that greasy hanks of his hair fell across his face. "I cannot tell you any more, except that Athadra's last words were for you to keep this land united."

The king choked on a strangled gasp. "You _left_ her?" He managed, his voice thick with the sting of betrayal. "How could you?!"

Zevran spoke up again, his velvet voice cutting through Alistair's rage. "When my Warden tells you to flee, you do not question," he informed them. "You turn and you run and you do not look back. You know this, _mi amigo_." Alistair did not look like he knew anything of the kind, but Zevran kept speaking, regardless. "It is not her violence which sets her apart," he supplied, coldly. "But the distance she is willing to take it."

Alistair had no answer for that, so Anora stepped in once more. "You are _certain_ she did not survive, Nathaniel?" The man inclined his head, his eyes lowering to the table. A spasm of emotion twitched over Zevran's face, but the elf's features quickly sublimated back into the mask of indifference...a dangerous expression in a trained killer. The queen cleared her throat. "Then...you have our condolences, and our thanks for rushing so quickly with this information." She gave her husband an expectant look, and he closed his mouth smartly, nodding.

"Right," Alistair affirmed, shaking his head. "I just...I can't believe…"

Shakily, Nathaniel took to his feet, pushing heavily against the table. "Zev," he gruffed, pulling the hair from his eyes. "She...wanted you to have this." He dug in a grubby pouch at his belt, and produced a grimy ring, spackled with rust...though, upon closer inspection, Anora realised that the rust was actually dried blood, and the grime lay upon pure gold.

The Antivan took the bloodstained jewel without hesitation, his bare hand closing over it and his eyes fluttering closed. He breathed a mumbled prayer in Antivan before his eyes opened once more. "_Gracias_, Nathaniel." He breathed a heavy sigh, suddenly turning toward the door. "And now I must take my leave."

"Wait," Alistair called, reaching out grab at the elf's shoulder. "You can't go."

Zevran proved nimble enough to dance backward from the gesture, though he gave the desperate man a sympathetic look. "I daresay you could not stop me, _amigo viejo_, and I recommend you do not make the attempt."

The king stopped short, his brows drawing together in a mild show of a much deeper hurt. "But..." He stammered, and Anora heard his real entreaty; Zevran was the man's last link to the Blight Companions, after Leliana took up duties in Orlais and the rest of their motley crew dissolved into the four winds, and now that Athadra had apparently breathed her last.

The assassin clenched and unclenched his unoccupied fist, his eyes sharp in sudden, deadly concentration. "Her final request was that Ferelden remain strong, for the troubles to come," he said. "Our Warden is gone, and we shall never see her again." He turned, making for the door. "And now I have said enough."

Anora's lips formed around her question before she even knew she was curious. "Where shall you go?"

Zevran paused, his hand on the door's latch, and he glanced back just enough to give her a glimpse of his tattooed cheek. "There is nothing left for me in this country but fleas and whores," he told them. "So my first stop will be to say farewell to them, before I return home." The elf took a breath, facing forward again. "Goodbye, Alistair," he allowed, "and luck be to you both."

Then he was gone, as abruptly and certainly as if he'd never been. An emptiness settled over Anora's stomach as she regarded her husband; he looked stricken, which she could understand, but they could ill afford to indulge him in his grief, with the mounting threat of the mage rebellion and their need to replace Zevran's subtle services as quickly as possible. "Nathaniel," she said, sparing the man a tight smile. "Please stay the night; eat a decent supper and breakfast, and take a good horse from the stables on the morrow for your return to Redcliffe."

The Warden paused in slurping the soup he couldn't resist eating while Zevran had taken their attention. "You have my thanks," he managed, his voice shaky with his fatigue.

She nodded, willing her nose not to wrinkle. "And a bath, straight after your meal," she insisted. "My husband and I shall retire to our bedchamber for the night. You're welcome to sleep in the guestroom, down the hall."

Nathaniel reiterated his thanks, and Anora went to Alistair, taking him by the hand and leading him through the drawing room to their sleeping quarters. Once the heavy door was closed, she clasped his still-strong shoulders. "I _am_ sorry," she assured him, though the frigid void still tugged at her insides when she felt her own gratitude at the Champion's apparent demise. "I know she...meant a great deal to you."

Alistair swallowed thickly, his eyelids fluttering, and then his strong arms coiled around her torso, pulling her into a crushing embrace. "I love you," he whispered against her cheek.

The solemnity of the vow wrenched that chilled emptiness away, and Anora felt her hollow spaces filling with a gentle warmth as she fell into the man's embrace. "I love you, too," she said, and meant it.


	5. Realignments

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who's following along this story, especially **clafount**, my excellent beta-reader!

* * *

_White Spire, Val Royeaux_

_15 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

It had only been three days, but the long climb to the top of the Spire felt like it would _never_ get any easier to make, no matter how long Evangeline served here. She understood the logic of having the templars' quarters so near the bottom of the tower, while the knight-commander's office must needs be at its apex, but such deduction was little consolation to her knees as she lugged her fully-armoured self up step after step. _Perhaps my heroism at the ball was a mistake after all_, she found herself thinking, and then she felt ashamed; it was by her sword that the maleficar Jeannot had been slain, thwarting his attempt to assassinate Divine Justinia. The Divine, in turn, had rewarded Evangeline by naming her Knight-Captain of the White Spire. Rejecting such a gift, even in moments of levity or weakness, flirted with blasphemy.

The Tranquil elf did not speak as she led the templar up to the office; she had not spoken a word since telling Evangeline that her presence was requested at the top of the tower. She still found their silences disconcerting, despite her long experience in the order; most of her years had been spent protecting the clergy, transporting newly-discovered mages, and tracking down apostates...none of which put her in regular contact with the Tranquil. But now that she had been posted to the most populous Circle outside of Tevinter, the new knight-captain supposed that she would have plenty of time to get acquainted with their kind, and so she indulged her own curiosity. "What is your name?"

The magicless mage answered with neither urgency nor hesitation. "I was called Fiona," she supplied, though she offered nothing else.

"My name is Evangeline," the templar offered, despite not being asked. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I have not had a proper conversation with a Tranquil before." The fact that the elf had used the past tense in giving her own name did not slip by Evangeline's notice, but she did not know how to properly address it, and so her unease settled low in her chest.

Moments passed before the elf responded. "Is there a task you wish of me, Knight-Captain?"

"I wish for you to slow your pace," Evangeline told her, breathing just a bit harder than she'd like. Fiona replied by lagging until the templar could fall into step beside her. After crossing another flight in silence, Evangeline's curiosity piqued once more. "Did you elect to undertake the Rite, Fiona?"

"No," the elf informed her, with all the weight of a snowflake landing in late spring.

The knight-captain's lips parted as she huffed, a hint of embarrassment threatening. It was rude of her to ask, even if her companion should be able to register no offence. "I am...sorry," she managed, though she wasn't certain if the apology was over her own _faux pas_ or the unfortunate necessity of subjecting Fiona to her fate. "But weak mages are a danger to themselves, as well as to us all," she recited, as though to cut through her own confusion.

"I was not a weak mage," Fiona said, and despite the evenness of her tone, there was an unmistakable contradiction in the statement. Evangeline might have pressed that surprising development, but they mounted the top of the great staircase and came face-to-face with Knight-Commander Eron's double doors. "We have arrived," the elf announced, before making their presence known by way of one of the great iron rungs hung for that very purpose.

A deep voice vibrated through the wood. "Enter, if you please." A moment later the doors swung outward under Fiona's effort, and Evangeline caught sight of a stranger sitting behind the knight-commander's desk. He was an enormous man, broad-shouldered, and the templar instantly recognised the crest emblazoned over his armoured chest. Her throat ran dry as the Seeker looked up from his papers and stared directly into her eyes, into her heart. His smile was no less terrifying for its softness. "Please come in, Evangeline," he beckoned.

The first step into the office felt like the first step onto the gallows might, she imagined. Fiona followed, closing the doors behind her and sinking into the shadows without a word. Evangeline gathered her courage, trying to mimic the Tranquil's blank expression as she faced down the man whose very presence stirred unease in the heart of any templar. He might well be her executioner, for all she knew. "Have I done something, Seeker?" If she was to be put to the question herself, she would first raise a few of her own. She prayed she would have the grace of answers.

The man's laugh was low and sonorous, like the flow of the Celestine River. "You have done a great many things, Knight-Captain," he assured her. "A great many for which you should be proud." He sat forward, lacing his gauntleted fingers. "You've already shown that you know _what_ I am, Evangeline, but tell me...do you know _who_ I am?"

"No, monsieur," she admitted at once. "I've no idea who you are."

That answer seemed to please him. "Fiona," he prompted, and the Tranquil mage took a single step into the room's candlelight. "Please remind me of my name." His moustache twitched with the depth of his grin. "It seems to elude me at the moment."

"You are called Lambert van Reeves, Lord Seeker," the elf said.

The sudden urge to kneel nearly overwhelmed the knight-captain, but she held herself back from such an ostentatious display of submission, instead throwing herself into a bow that nevertheless earned her another deep chuckle. "Indeed so, Fiona," he said, without looking at the Tranquil. "Thank you." Fiona took the praise as a directive to return to the shadows, and the Lord Seeker turned his attention back to the templar. "Rise," he instructed her. "I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, Evangeline. In fact, I must offer you my congratulations on a job well done. Apprehending a murderer after two days in your post is quite commendable."

Evangeline could not entirely relax, but she felt the ice in her lungs begin to melt. "Senior Enchanter Rhys is guilty, then?" There had been a string of suspicious deaths over the past few months, by Knight-Commander Eron's reporting, and Evangeline had come across the mage in an unauthorised area outside of curfew. When he couldn't give a reasonable account of his purpose, she'd had no choice but to apprehend him, though the task had given her no pleasure.

"We have begun a trial," Lambert acknowledged. "Never let it be said that anyone is beyond the Maker's justice, Knight-Captain. That is not why I've called you here tonight, however."

"Beg pardon, Lord Seeker," Evangeline interrupted, unable to silence herself. "But where is Knight-Commander Eron?"

Lambert's moustache twitched with another smile. "Eron has been called away to other duties, and I have assumed the position of Knight-Commander of the White Spire, as you must have already surmised. What you really mean to ask is _why_."

He waited until she nodded and put voice to the question. "Why have you supplanted Eron as knight-commander, Lord Seeker?" She asked, but even as she spoke, the answer presented itself clearly in Evangeline's thoughts.

"Because the tension in the wake of Kirkwall's destruction rises by the day," Lambert explained. Word had arrived of renewed slaughter only earlier that morning, another annulled Circle, this time in Dairsmuid in far-off Rivain. Already word had raced through the body of mages and templars at the Spire, terror and suspicion growing amongst the guardians and their charges in nearly-equal measure. "Conditions appear to be ripe for mages to make a grand bid for their freedom," the Lord Seeker went on. He spared a quick glance to his left, to the elf in the shadows. "Do you believe they will achieve more success than you did in Cumberland, Fiona?"

"Many will die," the Tranquil mage replied. "Some may live, for a time. Without a capable leader, any likelihood of long-term success is very slim."

As Fiona spoke, Evangeline realised that she was _Fiona_, the elven grand gnchanter who was supposed to have disappeared shortly before the most recent Conclave, along with a few other high-ranking mages. The templar had at first dismissed the name as a coincidence, if she'd even thought of it at all, and now she found her gaze drawn to the woman's forehead. In the wake of Grand Enchanter Fiona's disappearance, the Conclave was cut short, and nothing of note had resulted from it. "How…" Evangeline stammered, looking back to Lord Seeker Lambert. "It is against Chantry law to subject a Harrowed mage to the Rite."

The man's brow rose, as though the news came as a revelation to him. "Is it?" He wondered, settling back in his chair. "You would rather have had a formal inquiry into the proceedings of the Cumberland Conclave, into the vote to separate the Circle's governance from Chantry oversight, in which no moderate voices were able to sway the Libertarians?" He shook his head, still smiling. "You know as well as I that such exposure would have only resulted in the Circles rising three years ago, rather than weeks or months from now. And in any case," he said, his pleasant demeanour evaporating somewhat, "that is why _I _am in this office; it is not why _you_ are here."

Evangeline fairly reeled from the deluge of information the Lord Seeker had given her in only a few moments of speech. There was the fact that the Grand Enchanter and senior members of the Conclave had not simply disappeared, but had been made Tranquil...or simply executed, save for Fiona herself; the fact of the vote for liberation, and all of its implications for the coming conflict, which now seemed inevitable; the fact that, despite canon law and her own lingering misgivings, Evangeline had to admit that such extremes indeed seemed the most effective countermeasure to a vote of separation from the Chantry by the mages of the Circle. In the end, Evangeline could not deny that the Lord Seeker was correct...and, regardless, such issues were above her concern, at least until her superiors deigned to involve her. "What would you have of me, Lord Seeker?" She wondered, swallowing her lingering shock beneath a veneer of discipline.

"Another of my subjects has communicated a disturbing possibility," Lambert informed her, not a trace of a smile remaining in his expression. "She claims that it is possible to reverse the Rite of Tranquility; at first I was dismissive, but upon my arrival and review of my predecessor's affairs, I have discovered that he himself was investigating this very question."

In an evening of surprises, this new information was just more for the templar's overtaxed mind. "We know very little of the Rite," she observed. "Neither the Chantry nor the templars have had reason to sanction research into its depths. It may well be reversible."

The Lord Seeker's brows rose again, though the pleasure tugging at the edges of his face seemed far more genuine than it had at the beginning of their meeting. "That is a far more open-minded attitude than I had expected," he commented. "You may yet be the perfect agent for the task ahead, Knight-Captain," he went on. "Eron's records indicate that he sanctioned a Tranquil mage named Pharamond to research the question, from the safety of an abandoned fortress on the edge of the Abyssal Reach." He took a measured breath, composing his thoughts. "You are to gather supplies and companions; I will allow one fellow templar and two mages for the purpose. Once you are prepared, you will seek out Pharamond and ascertain his progress."

Evangeline nodded crisply. "It shall be done," she vowed, automatically. But then a doubt tingled in the corners of her mind. "...and what if there _is_ evidence of progress, Lord Seeker?"

"I doubt I need to press upon you the importance of the Rite," Lambert said, seriously. "And once the possibility of reversal is discovered, we have no choice but to assume that it shall become inevitable, potentially rendering the Rite useless. So, should you discover Pharamond's success, you must see to it that not one scrap of his discoveries make it out of that fortress."

She'd known that would be the man's answer; it could not have been otherwise. "I understand," she assured him, though part of her wished she didn't. She'd killed mages before...one did not rise to the protective detail of the Most Holy without practical experience, after all. But, rather than relish the prospect, she had to resign herself to the cruel necessity of bloodshed in the discharge of her duties. "May I go begin preparations, Lord Seeker?" He inclined his head, and Evangeline's first thought upon exiting his office was that at least she would not have to climb the stairs for a time.

oOoOo

_Redcliffe Castle_

_16 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

Six Grey Wardens stood around the circular table. They ranged in seniority, age, and rank; the newest amongst them was Suredat-an, whereas the most experienced had to be Stroud, originally of the Orlesian branch of the Order but long relocated across the Frostback Mountains. Oghren and Friga had been in Denerim to help bring down the Archdemon, while Sigrun and Nathaniel had undertaken their Joinings shortly thereafter, in Amaranthine. The only thing they all had in common, other than the darkspawn corruption in their veins, was that each and every one of them had fought and bled beside their Commander. They had borne witness to her prowess and her tenacity, her often reckless indifference, her bottomless courage. And now they had the seemingly-impossible task of confirming her replacement and enacting her will in her absence.

Nathaniel cleared his throat, breaking the long stretch of silence which the gathering had yet to break. "I believe that none of us ever wished to be in this position," he began, as evenly as he could. "Especially not so soon. But we cannot fool ourselves; the Thaw still plagues much of the southern countryside, and Redcliffe needs unambiguous leadership. Who in our midst would deny this?" As Warden-Constable, it fell to him to provide that leadership in her absence.

The qunari mage scoffed. She was the most junior, but-along with Nathaniel-the most recent in the Commander's company, and, perhaps oddly, the deepest in her confidence. Of those gathered, she was the only not to have a position of command, but her companionship with Athadra had earned her a place here, just the same. "You err," she warned them, frowning. "She lives."

"I appreciate your loyalty, Sura," Nathaniel assured her, " and I share it. But-"

Oghren grunted, cutting in. "If Nate says she's gone, then she's gone," he stated, before taking a hit off of his aleskin. Since receiving the news, he'd seemed intent on draining their casks twice as quickly as usual, as if to make up for the mugs the Commander would henceforth be unable to partake in. "Had somebody run out on her when she needed 'em...wouldn't do that to anybody else, if she could help it." He spoke of a lover's betrayal, and the unlikely but intense bond that had grown between the Warden and the Antivan elf in the long shadows of that betrayal's wake.

Nathaniel bit his tongue; Oghren was hardly the model of constancy after he'd been abandoned by his own wife a decade before, going on to father a child and then running off to join the Grey Wardens without consulting that child's mother beforehand. But before Nathaniel could think up a way of avoiding that sort of awkwardness, Stroud stepped in and relieved him of the burden. "It is moot," the older man rumbled, casting a stern look at them all. "The Commander is not here, and she likely shall not return for some time, even if she still breathes. The matter at hand is the same, regardless."

"It is not," Suredat-an insisted, turning her quicksilver gaze from Stroud to Sigrun, Nathaniel to Oghren, to Friga, until they finally settled on Stroud once more. "All of us are bonded in blood; in the _Commander's_ blood." That was true; though Stroud had been a Warden longer than any of the rest of them, he'd still partaken of Athadra's blood after relocating to Redcliffe. He'd taken an infusion she'd developed with the alchemist Avernus, based on the Joining, but using her own concentrated life force; all of the other Wardens under her command had undertaken their Joinings with that very concoction. The horned mage tilted her head as she regarded Stroud, as though she were curious. "Can you not feel her in your veins?"

Stroud frowned, crossing his arms. "I cannot," he admitted. "Though that is hardly surprising; I have only been able to infer her presence at close proximity, the same as any other brother or sister."

Friga made a thoughtful noise. A healer of Avvar extraction, she had been rescued from the near-Annulment of the Fereldan Circle during the Blight, and she'd been a loyal comrade ever since. "I felt..._something_," she said, uncertainly. "In the evening, days past. It was like a wreath of ice tried to close around my heart." She shuddered as she spoke, rubbing her arms.

Nathaniel felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck, and he shared a glance with Sigrun; he saw at once that she remembered that same evening, just as Nathaniel himself did. It was during his desperate flight to the capitol; he had gotten a sudden chill, too intense and too deep within his chest to be from the elements...but it had faded quickly, gone almost too soon to properly remark upon. It had seemed odd at the time, soon forgotten in his urge to reach Alistair with the bare news before the monarch heard it from any other source, but as the archer scanned the faces of his fellow Wardens, he saw solemn recognition in each of them. Even Stroud's eyes cast down to the table, and Oghren looked a touch more sober. "What does this mean?" Nathaniel wondered, when he'd found his voice again. "Does that mean she...really is gone?"

The kossith drew up to her full height, her face set in concentration, the scars from her once-sewn lips deepening with her frown. "No," she eventually pronounced, as certain as ever. "The connection has been weakened greatly, but if you focus, you will sense it has not broken." Another moment passed, and Suredat-an's quicksilver eyes slid closed. "We are connected by a deep magic, magic in the blood. It binds us together as it once bound the elves, before the fall of Arlathan and the rise of the human gods." She opened her eyes, looking down her nose and directly into Nathaniel's soul. It was by far the longest speech the horn-headed mage with sewing scars across her lips had given in his presence. "She has been gravely injured, but she lives. I would know if she had died."

It had been a _long_ time since Nathaniel had feared the Maker's judgment, but beneath this mage's gaze, he yet again remembered just how far from Andraste's grace his path had taken him. Suredat-an, Friga, Bethany, the dozens of mages gathered to the Warden banner over the past three years...every single one of them could command the power of blood, though as far as he knew only Athadra herself had trucked with a demon to acquire the knowledge. Nathaniel was one of the only people alive who knew that, however; to her charges, the Commander had claimed to have learnt _the art_ from a former friend, another mage. And she proved that blood magic was as teachable in this world, without the intervention of spirits, by teaching it to every single mage under her command, whether they'd wished to learn or not. At one time, Nathaniel would have tried to kill Athadra out of horrified disgust and righteous anger; he came very close to the attempt, once, the night after his own Joining. But he'd had years of practice at swallowing such ideas, forced to confront a reality much grimier and more complicated than any man should if the world were truly just. Blinking, Nathaniel brought himself back to the present, frowning at the qunari. "How can you know these things?"

Her brow arched; it was not the first time she'd had to answer that question from him in the past few months. "Because," she said, as she'd answered before, "I remember." Her very name, Suredat-an, was supposed to mean _one who remembers_, in her mother tongue. "Now, you may stand here and usurp the Commander's position, but I will not."

Stroud growled out a sigh. "Are you threatening to desert, qunari?"

The sudden, unexpected accusation thickened the air with a wave of tension, and Nathaniel found himself taking a step back from the table as a precautionary measure. Suredat-an did not move, either to retreat or to ready a weapon. "Our Commander still lives, and while that is true, she has my loyalty and respect. You have earned neither, human, and you would not survive the attempt." She glanced back to Nathaniel, her lip curling. "You will lead us in the Commander's stead, and I shall seek her out. If she deems the act a breach of fealty, then it shall be her duty to put me to the sword."

The Orlesian Warden, rather than bridling at the newcomer's brashness, rather astonishingly dipped his head in a quick nod. "I have no objection," he said, "if the Constable of the Grey does not."

Nathaniel cleared his throat, and he felt the power shifting in the room as all eyes turned to him. He dared not hope the mage's insistence reflected the truth, for he still could not quite forgive himself for following Athadra's final order, but he did not wish to force a contest of arms to keep the qunari from trying. "Very well, Suredat-an. Gather what supplies you need, and begin your search as quickly as possible. Bring the Commander back, if she will come."

The qunari inclined her head, turning to leave without further delay. Friga cleared her throat and spoke quickly. "I would accompany her, if you would allow it, Nathaniel," the mage offered. "If the Commander has been wounded as badly as we believe, she will need my care."

Suredat-an paused, glancing back to Nathaniel. He grimaced; Friga was nearly as good a healer as Anders had been, and her departure would be felt. Before he could render a decision, however, Suredat-an spoke up. "No," she rumbled. Along with affirmative grunts, the word seemed to comprise the bulk of her everyday vocabulary; her unexpected loquaciousness from before was evidently at an end, for she did not offer further explanation for the rejection.

Friga looked hurt and affronted, for just a heartbeat. Nathaniel cleared his throat, stepping in before she could insist. "If the Commander has not been healed, Friga, she will be beyond even your talents by the time she is located," he judged. "While there stand many mages amidst our ranks who will benefit from your continued guidance and instruction, not to mention your talents."

The Avvar mage's resolve faltered, and she offered him a nod. "As you say, Warden-Constable."

Nathaniel shared a look with Suredat-an. He very nearly said _Maker preserve you_, but even if he had not surrendered the greater part of his faith under Athadra's command, he would not have wanted to insult the mage so. Qunari in race only, she had spent the first six months of her tenure as a Grey Warden insisting that she was neither qunari nor _tal-vashoth_, the term generally applied to those who turned their back on the religion of the northern isles. Instead, she'd insisted that she was simply _saarebas_, a mage. But even she could not hold against the weight of centuries, and eventually she'd stopped correcting people who referred to her by the title of her people. Nathaniel took a breath and clapped a fist to his breast. "Farewell, Sura," he intoned. "And good luck."

Suredat-an inclined her head, the golden tips of her sawed-off horns glinting in the low light of the room, and she left them without another word. Nathaniel wondered, silently, if he would ever see her again.


	6. The Fell Clutch

Author's note: Thanks so much to **clafount** for eyeballing this thing! If you haven't checked her work out yet, you totally should. And feel free to drop a review!

Also, be warned that this chapter has some potentially **triggering** material for references to sexual abuse and consent issues. If such content is upsetting, you may wish to skip the last half of the second scene. Of course, if the execution rather than the nature of the content offends, I am sorry.

* * *

_Weisshaupt Fortress_

_17 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

It was time; he knew it the moment he'd opened his eyes from yet another nightmare that left his throat rough with the screaming. Today was the day Johanus would quit the surface for good and all. When he brought this news Wilhelm, his chamberlain, the man had seemed more stricken than Johanus had anticipated. Even now, there was denial at the forefront of Wilhelm's icy eyes, as they stood watching what would be the First Warden's final sunset.

"Is there really nothing I can say that will convince you to remain?" The Chamberlain of the Grey intoned, his grizzled beard twitching with the depth of his grimace. "If only just for this one night?"

Johanus drew a breath, leaning heavily on the cold, stone banister outside the chamber they shared. "For you I am tempted, _liebchen_," he admitted, before shaking his head. "But I do not think I can subject myself to one more vision of the horde. It is time I faced them in person, and put an end to dream."

"If that would truly be an end," Wilhelm bristled. "The Maker only knows what wickedness _she_ has brought into this world, against your directives." It was time for him to shake his head, tearing his gaze away from the gilded lavender of the horizon to look upon Johanus, anger and sadness warring in the wrinkles about his eyes. "What if you are simply turned into a thrall of the dragons?"

The First Warden let his breath out in a long sigh; there was only one woman who could bring the chamberlain's ire to the surface so nakedly. "Calm yourself, Wilhelm," he counseled, wishing his last moments with his companion to remain unspoilt by lingering thoughts of the Champion of Redcliffe. "She is no longer our concern...or very soon will cease to be, at any rate."

He could tell at once his mistake when the chamberlain's grimace took on a fevered quality. "Indeed," Wilhelm grunted. "It appears that the Seekers of Truth are on course to do our order a boon, however inadvertent, by eliminating the maleficar."

Johanus frowned, his grey-streaked moustache bristling. His long years of service had, like most of his countrymen, only served to strengthen his faith in the Maker and His Bride...he knew of the good work the Chantry's forces did. And the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden had acted against Johanus' explicit instruction when she went ahead with her plans, after her petition for official (if discreet) sanction had been denied...yet, still, it had been with a burdened conscience that the First Warden had given his tacit approval to the Lord Seeker's conspiracy. That Johanus had been informed at all was simply a matter of _professional courtesy_, according to Lambert. A show of respect for the Grey Wardens' history of piety and the tradition of mutual non-interference each organisation had borne regarding the other. Along with, Johanus liked to think, an unspoken anxiety over setting the Seekers in direct opposition to the body of the Wardens. "That may be," he admitted, after a moment's reflection.

Love or loathe her, it was undeniable that Commander Athadra had been a formidable Warden, and her actions would long echo after she joined him in the Void...if, indeed, she had not already preceded him there. Johanus could not help but respect her for that, even as those actions angered him. But he could see that his companion's loathing was untempered by such regard. "Assuming," Wilhelm went on, as though Johanus had said nothing at all, "that the Lord Seeker is actually capable of subduing her. The knife-eared blood mage never did know when to die."

"That is enough," Johanus cut in, his rasping voice raised just a tone above normal. "What is done cannot be undone. Regardless," the First Warden observed, "you will need to ensure we are prepared to face the storm to come, in my absence." He was not above his own petty annoyance that his final sunset had not passed more pleasantly, but as he looked out over the western mountains, he could see no more trace of the Maker's holy fire. "The tournament is arranged?"

Wilhelm's irrational fixation with the Fereldan appeared broken at last, for he produced a wearied sigh. "It is, Commander," he allowed, according Johanus a formality rarely seen in their more private moments in a great many years. "Though I still believe we would be stronger if you would simply name your chosen successor and hold an election, as has been done for the past three Ages."

"I am well aware of the weight of tradition in this matter," Johanus reminded him, and he felt frustrated that he was forced to revive the subject only so recently dismissed. "You know as well as I that the bloodless succession became necessary after Garahel's fall in order to preserve our supplies," he said. "You also know that, owing to Commander Athadra's innovations, we have received almost all of Ferelden's share of Urthemiel's blood. Supplies are therefore plentiful."

The Chamberlain of the Grey pawed at his beard, clearly uncertain. "It just seems so very wasteful," he objected, weakly. "Our efforts would be better spent preparing for the rise of the dragons. It is only a matter of time, now. We need every warrior ready to pounce upon the Groundbreak, when it comes."

Johanus took a steadying breath, closing his eyes. Behind them, he witnessed the years he'd spent at his post, after his own election. The battles in the Deep Roads and in the halls of human politics, the struggle to keep the corruption from spilling out of each and flooding the whole of the world, the affection he had found in the man beside him. It nearly broke his heart to leave like this, but as his eyes fluttered open, he knew he could not give in, even to ease the worries of his beloved chamberlain. "Wilhelm," he gruffed. "It is precisely because we face a Blight that we _must_ select the best to lead us. In the face of that need, half a dozen lives sacrificed in battle are but dewdrops in the morning." He gripped the other man by the shoulders, squeezing Wilhelm's unarmoured flesh tenderly. "Trust in the ancient ways," he enjoined. "There is wisdom there that no man now possesses."

Wilhelm swallowed with great difficulty, not speaking for several long moments, before his arms wrapped Johanus in a desperate embrace and his head bent forward until the First Warden's lips brushed just above the bridge of his nose. "Very well, Johanus," he conceded, his whisper thick with unshed tears. "It shall be done. You have my promise."

oOoOo

_White Spire, Val Royeaux_

_14 Harvestmere, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

The shadows cast by the glowstones in these halls held more dangers than simple magic, though that was terror enough for those who knew little of the Game, or of the wider net of Thedosian politics. Fortunately for the common folk, they had figures such as Lambert's next guest to shoulder those burdens for them, to keep their lives as boring and predictable as possible in this demon-haunted world. She in particular came highly recommended, as much by her lack of reputation as the presence of one; that she was in the confidence of the Divine was a fact known only to a select few, among whose number Lambert was now quite happy to count himself. When her soft knock sounded from his office door, the Lord Seeker bid her enter in his officious voice, letting not a quiver of pleasure bleed through.

When she entered, he saw that she wore the modest raiment of a simple lay sister, her hood drawn up to cover that brilliant red hair from any curious eyes; she'd be simply one of dozens in the streets of the Capitol, able to dissolve into the anonymity of the cloth at a heartbeat's notice. Her blue eyes locked on him immediately. "Lord Seeker," she greeted, solemnly. "How might I be of service?"

"Secure the door," Lambert instructed, and nodded to an unoccupied chair in front of his desk. "Then sit. We have matters of import to discuss."

"Lord Seeker," the woman acquiesced, moving immediately to obey. As she settled in her chair and lowered her hood, however, she let a note of pure curiosity grace her features. "If I might be so bold, might I ask why the Lord Seeker would wish to discuss important matters with a humble Chantry sister?" Her curiosity took on an excited quality, perfectly capturing the nerves and aspirations of a humble young woman in the presence of her betters.

It was enough to bring a true smile to Lambert's face. "I must compliment you on your performance, Sister...Nightingale," he pronounced, tasting the woman's pseudonym and finding it intriguing. "But it does not take the imagination of a bard to explain why the Lord Seeker might wish a private conversation with the Left Hand of the Divine, and to guess a selection of topics which they might like to discuss."

The woman's reaction to such a frank exposure was to blink, once, before her posture subtly shifted; no longer the idol-struck girl half-cowering before an awesome and powerful man, she became relaxed, though even in this new pose Lambert recognised a mask...he'd no doubt that she could catch an assassin's dagger between her teeth at a moment's notice, should occasion require. "Very well," she said, silkily, and it was all Lambert could do not to choke out the gasp that threatened. "What assistance do you request of Most Holy?"

Lambert could not answer at once, but he covered his distraction by pulling in a long breath. In the moments it took him to regain his control and draw back from the edge, he fancied he saw a crack in Sister Nightingale's mask...just the faintest narrowing of her eyes registered her displeasure at being discovered, even by one such as he. "In short," the Lord Seeker intoned, making certain to keep his own mask flawless, "I require you. Or, rather, one of my lieutenants does." He chanced a smirk, especially when Nightingale herself lacked an immediate response. "This matter is of interest to Most Holy, of course...perhaps of supreme interest, next to the souls of the faithful, of course."

He could practically see the calculations behind her eyes, and it took her an impressively short time to divine the true subject of her visit. "Kirkwall," she pronounced. "You wish me to return." She seemed to have deduced that he'd learnt of her visit to the troubled city a number of years before, unsuccessful though it was in stemming the tide of events.

"Indeed so," Lambert confirmed, inclining his head. "I have tasked Seeker Pentaghast with discovering the truth of events as they unfolded in that city, before and after the Grand Cleric's murder...and, if possible, to ascertain the location of the apostates who affected the vile deed."

From the placidity of Nightingale's expression, the Lord Seeker could tell that she was surprised. "I am sorry," she said, sounding nothing of the kind. "But I do not see why my services are required, if one of Most Holy's trusted agents is already committed to the task." Unlike her own more clandestine role in Justinia's inner circle, Cassandra Pentaghast's position as the Right Hand of the Divine was far more well-known, at least amongst those who considered themselves players in the Game.

Such a simple observation showed the briefest glimpse of what must have been a great reservoir of courage, for very few dared call Lambert's orders into question to his face, much less twice in a single conversation. "In fact, you are here at the request of Justinia herself," he informed the woman. "She has requested my consent to your wearing of the uniform of my brothers and sisters for this mission, without having first taken the vigil or the vows." Nightingale's skepticism was clear in her continued silence, though her mask did not slip, this time. "You will of course confirm your assignment with Most Holy herself," he observed, "but I wished to judge your worthiness of posing as a Seeker of Truth without giving you the benefit of forewarning. I trust you understand my rights and my desire for discretion in this."

"Of course," Sister Nightingale affirmed, without hesitation. If she had further questions about the Divine's intent, she was smart enough to know that Lambert would not tell her. Instead, she asked a far more practical question. "When are we to set out?"

"As soon as Most Holy requests it of you," the Lord Seeker informed her. "Perhaps as early as the next sunrise. Given her trust, and your conduct tonight, I am satisfied that you will not bring shame to my subordinates by posing as a member of their ranks," he allowed. "While in public, you are to wear the armour and insignia of the Seekers of Truth, and you are to appear to defer to Seeker Pentaghast in all things."

"Lord Seeker," the Left Hand acknowledged. She rose without being dismissed, though Lambert accepted her curt nod and returned one of his own.

He fancied he noticed her eyes catch on a spot just over his shoulder, but her turn remained fluid, and she was gone before the Lord Seeker could properly remark upon the gesture. In any case, the service he was extracting from the branded mage beneath his desk was finally proving too much to overcome through sheer force of will. He let his head loll backward as the sheer pleasure overrode his other senses. Coincidentally, his eyes fell upon the very spot that had caught Sister Nightingale's attention just as his release broke over him, and he could not help the instinctive laugh that broke through his usual grunted sigh. There stood Athadra, stoic as a statue, her eye fixed to the closed door and her face as impassive as always.

oOoOo

_Royal Grotto, Val Royeaux_

_15 Harvestmere, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

Her heart had been hammering for hours, and it showed no signs of easing, even in this place of repose. Admittedly, her anxiety was not solely due to the knowledge she had gained shortly before midnight, nor the all-too-heavy burden of her duties to the east.

The voice, when it came, echoed throughout the small cave, impossible to locate. "As I recall," she said, from nowhere and everywhere, "I warned you that when next we met I would squeeze the marrow from your bones. I can only wonder what must have transpired to make you risk this most credible of threats."

It had been years since the exchange in question, but Leliana had no doubt that if she did not tread carefully, the Witch of the Wilds would honour her word. This was no time to engage entire conversations with a flick of the eyebrows, but for well-chosen forthrightness. "Athadra is in the White Spire," the former bard said, cutting directly to the point. "She needs your help." They had been lovers, briefly, Morrigan and the Warden, during the chaos of the Blight. For reasons of her own, the Witch of the Wilds had ended the affair even before the archdemon had been brought low, and she had disappeared utterly the very night of Athadra's triumph atop Fort Drakon. The secondhand agony borne of observing Athadra's grief would have made for a wonderful ballad, if Leliana hadn't been absolutely positive that the elf would have murdered her, Alistair, Anora, and half of the guards in the royal palace at the first sign of such a thing. As it was, Leliana always suspected that such pain was one-sided, that Morrigan could not possibly have requited the depth of affection Athadra had felt; now she found herself hoping against her younger judgment, for her own sake as much as Athadra's.

Morrigan's next words were long in coming, but they emerged from a shadow at the back of the dimly-lit grotto, rather than the very walls themselves. "You are mistaken," she said, her voice wooden. "'Tis over a month since…"

As the witch's voice guttered out, Leliana knew that she must have felt _something_ in the face of Athadra's devotion, some small measure of the same pain upon parting. "...since she was made Tranquil," the former bard finished.

A shadow fell across the entrance of the grotto, and Morrigan's true voice sounded from her silhouette. "That is a momentous accusation," she informed the other woman. "Though I cannot disprove it. You are certain?"

"I only dared lay eyes upon her for but an instant, but I would know her anywhere," Leliana affirmed. "It was the Warden."

The depths of darkness surrounding the figure at the head of the cave did not retreat. "Walk with me," Morrigan instructed, coolly, before moving from the mouth of the cave. Leliana's note had suggested the meeting place for its privacy, but she did not linger long; if the Witch of the Wilds wished a stroll, she would not be denied. The Left Hand of the Divine emerged from the grotto and fell into an easy pace, and before her heart had hammered thrice, the immaculately-dressed Morrigan came into step beside her. To all appearances, they would appear little more than a noblewoman and a Chantry sister enjoying a private midnight stroll in the empress' gardens, their very presence evidence of their worthiness to be there. "You have considered the consequences of this information," Morrigan went on, stating the fact of the matter quite baldly. "And yet you have informed me, nevertheless."

It had not been a question, but still, Leliana could not help but answer. "I owe her too much to let her idle in thrall to Lambert van Reeves," she said, suppressing a shudder as they passed a sprig of royal elfroot, to tantalisingly near that any herbalist would risk their hands to snatch a few leaves from. "We all do," she affirmed, throwing a glance to her walking companion. "No matter the cost."

Morrigan arched a perfectly-sculpted brow. "Even if that price is the tenuous accord between the Circles and the Chantry, grown ever more strained by recent events?" She held her hands clasped behind her back, no staff in sight, but an air of power emanated from her, obvious even to a mundane such as Leliana.

They neared a tiny stream, filled with silvery fish so fat and contented they did not scatter in the presence of humans. Leliana meditated upon Morrigan's reply for a moment, observing the moonlight dancing beneath the surface of the water. "...You would risk your position out of a thirst for revenge?" She asked, her mental calculus adjusting quickly at the implications; far from having to convince the woman that a rescue was necessary, it appeared that Morrigan was far more committed than Leliana could have imagined.

At least until the witch's amused cackle broke over the chirping of the crickets. "I speak not of my reaction to your news," she managed, after a breath, "but of the Warden's own at her liberation. I cannot imagine she will suffer freedom with any manner of dignity," Morrigan sighed, not without a certain fondness.

Leliana blinked, keeping pace with the other woman, though she allowed her confusion to show through the mask she'd had to wear for far too long. "She is Tranquil," the former bard repeated. "From what I know of their kind, such concerns are far above their capacity."

"Or beneath it," Morrigan confirmed, sharply. "Depending on your point of view. Still," she went on, frowning, "you make a fundamentally flawed assumption, in that you believe such a condition is without any method of reversal."

"A thousand years of experience has strongly suggested such," Leliana replied, though she could tell her own voice lacked the conviction that it should have held.

The witch heaved a sigh, shaking her head. "A hundred thousand years spent without the most meagre inquiry into the unknown is unlikely to produce knowledge contrary to common wisdom, even if the truth lingers just beyond the veil of that supposed wisdom's ignorance," she pointed out. "Even now forces gather beyond your Chantry's reckoning, knowledge that your beloved leaders have denied since before the myth of Andraste took root amongst the barbarians."

Such blasphemy stated so boldly amidst the very seat of Chantry power could not but tear a laugh from Leliana, for it seemed so true to Morrigan's nature that, for just a moment, she could imagine overhearing it said in passing to Athadra herself, back in one of their slapped-together camps in the rain-soaked soil of Ferelden, during the Fifth Blight. But the further implications of the witch's words stripped even such modest levity from Leliana's spirit, as she considered what Morrigan was actually saying. "You mean there _is_ a method of reversing Tranquility?"

"Yes," Morrigan affirmed. "...And no. Much like a significant wound will heal but leave a scar, no mage can truly recover from sundering her very essence in the Rite of Tranquility. There are always costs, and there will always be traces of the psychic injury." She sounded sad, and not a trifle ambivalent, as she continued to speak. "I am confident that I can restore Athadra's connection to her magic, but I am not at all certain that she would thank you for inspiring me to such action...and I am quite certain that your masters and mistresses would not."

Leliana wondered, briefly, if the witch counted Empress Celene as _her_ mistress, as she accorded herself the empress' magical advisor, but the bard knew that such curiosity would not be welcomed enough to merit a response. "Are you asking for my advice, Morrigan, or simply giving me fair warning?"

The other woman's answer was a long moment and three more steps in coming. "Perhaps neither," she settled. "I must first verify your suspicions are borne out by reality before I can come to a decision as to how I might proceed."

"And if my concerns are genuine?" the former bard asked, before she could stop herself.

Morrigan's green-gold eyes flashed in the edge of Leliana's vision. "Then you may be assured that there will be consequences, whatever course of action I take."

Leliana's surprise was quickly ceding to alarm; when she'd first arranged this meeting, she'd had no idea just what might come of it...only a vague notion that Athadra must be secreted away from the tower somehow, will-less though she might be. "The country...no, the _world_ is already on the edge of chaos," she pointed out. "Celene and Gaspard have only recently disappeared with no sign, and the streets of Val Royeaux are free of blood only by Andraste's grace."

"The empress and her erstwhile vassal are alive and well," Morrigan cut in, somewhat acidly, though even she had the sense to whisper in the heart of the empress' domain. "And your dead god has nothing to do with maintaining the current state of affairs, tenuous and ephemeral as that state will very soon prove to be."

Leliana felt her throat go dry, long since inured to such outrageous pronouncements; it was the _consequence_ of the witch's words which kept her pulse elevated, even as the two women sedately meandered along the midnight path. "What you insinuate…"

"I insinuate nothing," Morrigan corrected her, her voice softening to a register hardly audible, even to the former bard. "I instead say plainly that if Lambert van Reeves has shackled Athadra, he will not survive beyond the next sunset, and depending upon Athadra's own fate, that may be the least of the concerns this fair city might incur in the days to come."

The outrageous truth settled heavily upon Leliana's mind as she looked back out onto the stream, but she could only spare a moment's regret; there was only time enough for sorting out what must next be done. "Thank you," she allowed. "For your honesty, if for nothing else." But, when she glanced beside her to where Morrigan had just stood, she could found she could not feign surprise that the woman had vanished, without a sign that she'd ever set foot in the garden at all.


	7. And Commanded To Be Sound

Author's note: This chapter contains more strong allusions to sexual assault and other potential triggers.

* * *

_White Spire, Val Royeaux_

_16 Harvestmere, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

Careful observation and dispassionate analysis were the keys to knowledge, and knowledge, in its turn, was the key to success in any endeavour. Thus it was that Morrigan had spent the better part of the intervening twenty-five hours since her departure from the insufferable bard in her favoured avian form, that of an unassuming crow. She'd flitted from sill to perch about the tower, observing as dispassionately as she could; it had been quite easy, for the most part, at least of the floors beneath the Lord Seeker's office. They were filled with mindless cows, corralled into these paltry walls by fear alone, lowing for someone to save them from the templars, from the world, from themselves. In the years since her rather reluctant aid in salvaging the Fereldan Circle from its own logical conclusion, Morrigan's opinion of the institution had changed but little. Most of the mages herein did not even merit her scorn, much less her pity.

Such emotional distance was somewhat harder to maintain in the tower's higher reaches, when she discovered that Leliana's claims had been correct after all. Part of her, a larger part than she cared to admit, wanted simply to flee at the sight of the elf that she'd once consoled in the Deep Roads, now reduced to an automaton who spoke only when addressed by the moustachioed man. She was utterly unrecognisable, her thick hair shorn down to the very scalp, a wide band of cloth wrapped carelessly around her head to obscure the voided socket of her left eye, her battle-worn face bereft of any animation. Unlike with every other mage in this tower, Morrigan had no doubts that Athadra's presence here was entirely involuntary, and she knew that not a few of the Lord Seeker's minions must have died to bring her here. She knew because of the simple pewter ring that Athadra still wore on the third finger of her left hand, the ring that Morrigan herself had once worn at the behest of her mother, the ring that Lambert van Reeves had not seen fit to remove from his new slave's finger. She had passed the metal band to the elf in a fit of sentimentality that Athadra's lifestyle had given her some cause to regret over the past nine years, as the ring's magic awoke whenever its wearer fell into mortal peril, and reported that fact to the ring's owner.

'Twas a state the Warden found herself in on a fortnightly basis, and each time, Morrigan would be jolted with the certain knowledge that the elf was but a hair's breadth from the Void. On the eighth night of Kingsway, more than a month past, Morrigan was wrenched out of bed by a serpent of ice worming its way through her heart, and she had known-or thought she had known-that Athadra drew her last breath in the castle of Highever. After the ice melted within her, the ring was silent, its magic not simply dormant but dissolved. Now 'twas but a lump of metal, as useless as any other, and had its wearer not figured so heavily in Morrigan's life she might have been fascinated to learn that the enchantments her mother had encoded into it could not tell the difference between physical death and magical separation.

As the full moon crested in the northern sky and the hours of night turned into the hours of morning, Morrigan had yet to come to a decision. Her threat to Leliana had not been idle; one way or another, the Lord Seeker would draw his last breath before the sun warmed the Waking Sea. But the question remained as to what, precisely, was to be done about Athadra and the other Tranquil mage that Lambert had taken as his personal property. Morrigan certainly knew what fate _she_ would have preferred, given the choice between death and possession, yet she could not make that choice for one who'd earned the right to decide as thoroughly as Athadra had done. Though she could not simply walk up to the elf and ask; in her current state, the husk of a mage valued only the next breath, whencever it might come.

There was also the complicating factor that Morrigan was not entirely certain how her presence might be welcomed. If Athadra and her companion saw their overseer as a more reliable source of security than the witch herself, they would be liable to join in his defence, and the Warden at least was still equipped with the knowledge to make use of her own life-force, weakened as it was without the presence of mana as a conduit. Such a course would resolve Morrigan's quandary for her, as she would have little choice but to slay the man and the elves all.

At times, the temptation to reveal herself became nearly overwhelming, especially when the Lord Seeker called his charges to bed. She was not precisely appalled to witness the debauchery that the man subjected the Tranquil mages to, nor was she shocked at their mute compliance to every command, every whispered instruction, every groaned entreaty. One would have thought that a man of Lambert's age and position would have long since run out of imagination, especially given the placid docility of his subjects, but hours passed before the Lord Seeker finally succumbed to exhaustion and allowed the elves to fall into dreamless sleep.

Only Athadra did not sleep; she merely lay there, stiffly, staring at the ceiling until Lambert's breathing became deep and even. Then, inexplicably and yet inevitably, the injured elf's head turned to regard the small, paneless window in which Morrigan had been perched for the better part of the night's lascivious festivities. For but a moment, the witch fancied that the elf merely sought to gaze upon the stars in peace, but her blood-coloured eye fixed upon the blackbird crouching so stoically upon the sill. To keep up appearances, Morrigan feigned at pecking the seam between her clawed feet, but when she chanced a glance back toward the bed, she saw that the ruse had not dislodged Athadra's gaze.

She could still go, she knew, flee to plot a more thorough revenge. But she also knew, or at least strongly suspected, that Athadra would take such an action as a betrayal, perhaps one betrayal too many after what felt like a lifetime's worth of deceit. And she also felt the weight of Athadra's stare, bereft though it might be of any emotion, and the witch found she could not turn away. So, instead, Morrigan hopped off of the stony precipice, plummeting to the wooden floor. The room flashed faintly as she fell, her transformation to her human form hardly spanning a single avian heartbeat. She landed with feline grace, making no sound against the thrush-covered wood of the floor. She wore not a single thread to rustle, either, and as she rose she fancied she saw a glimmer of appreciation in the depths of the Warden's vivid eye.

"Be you friend or foe," Morrigan broached, deliberately. "Or simply content to observe, for the nonce?"

Very carefully, the Tranquil elf slipped out of the Lord Seeker's bed, dressed only in the folded cloth that barely covered her ruined eye and partially occluded the sunburst brand which marked her as Lambert's property. The mark was the most offensive the elf had accrued in the long years since last the witch had seen her so naked, but not the most egregious; Athadra's torso was littered with scars new and old, tribute rent from her very flesh and dedicated upon the altar of her sworn duty. The rudest amongst those at the elf's front was a jagged slash across her breastbone, years in the healing but still vivid. The sight constricted Morrigan's throat, so she spoke no more. "I warned him," Athadra said, and the soulless quality of her voice wrenched another spear of ice into Morrigan's chest. "That if he did not kill me, I would kill him." She blinked, turning slightly to regard the still-sleeping Seeker placidly. "You will let me kill him, will you not?"

Morrigan's throat still closed about her answer, her gaze falling upon the deep fissures striped across the elf's back, tokens of discipline accrued before Morrigan's very eyes in the midst of the Blight. The witch had to draw several breaths to banish the ancient memory. "That depends," she managed, after a moment, "upon a number of factors...his survival of the ritual used to mend your sundering being the principal one."

Athadra's reply came slowly, evenly, without the woman turning to face her would-be rescuer. "It is very important that he survive," she said. "I know that I will be quite upset if I cannot kill him."

Even for one of the Tranquil, or perhaps especially so, the elf seemed to consider her impending restoration with surprising alacrity. Morrigan was also mildly surprised at the distress which clenched her heart, for if the Lord Seeker must live, then his lifeblood must not be used to engage the ritual to send Athadra's mind across the Veil. That left but few options at their disposal. "Do you propose to sacrifice your elven companion, as you did Lady Isolde, these many years ago?"

In the very castle that would eventually become her demense, but which at the time was falling prey to a horde of ravenous undead summoned by a demon playing at the heartstrings of a confused and pitiful boy, Athadra had used the mother's blood to save her son. In the time since that decision, the elf had made even more despicable gambits, both acclaimed and virtually unknown, and thus Morrigan could not put such an action beyond her purview. Yet when Athadra's attention returned to the witch, she shook her head, stating simply, "Fiona yet has a part to play."

Morrigan's unease was not settled, for it was not that particular eventuality which had so bestirred her nerves. "We are in a tower full of mages and templars," she pointed out, glancing through the doorless aperture into the Seeker's office proper. "Surely there must be some lyrium about; 'tis perhaps the most well-stocked location in southern Thedas, after all."

"Seekers do not take lyrium," came the elf's stoic reply. "I might attempt to procure an adequate supply from elsewhere in the tower, but that shall increase our risk of discovery quite substantially."

It nearly turned Morrigan's stomach to realise that, toneless as it was, Athadra's statement would have resembled a mewling coward's question when posed by a mind cowed but unsundered. The elf of her memory would never have asked permission to do anything at all, and certainly not in such an obsequious manner. It was that insult which broke down the last vestiges of hesitation within the witch, and she grimaced, casting her eyes onto the still-sleeping Lord Seeker with an irrepressible shudder. "There is but one magical avenue I know which will provide the power we seek, yet spare the man's heart for the moments it will take you to silence it...though I fear you shall mislike the means, once your mind is rendered whole."

Athadra's remaining eye widened slightly with the subtle arch of her scarred brow, the flesh there once cleaved by a buffet from the shield of Loghain Mac Tir, precious minutes before the elf had opened his throat upon the steps of the Landsmeet Chamber in Denerim. "Do you fear for my upset," she wondered, idly, "or that I shall effect retaliation for it?"

"Both," Morrigan admitted, somewhat bitterly, before she could halt the errant breath from escaping her lips. "The restoration process is hardly placid under the most serene of circumstances, and if you have cause, you might act rashly, and come later to regret it."

"You mean I might kill you, as well as him," the elf surmised. "That will not happen," she said, without a hint of pleading or denial. "I cannot understand it now, but I loved you, and it is likely I shall love you again if we proceed."

Morrigan's throat constricted once more, so that she could not have then replied even if she'd wished to, and she took a moment to compose herself until her gaze registered no more emotion than her companion's. "Very well," the witch acquiesced. "Then I shall begin."

oOoOo

She came awake suddenly, all at once, from an interminable blackness. This did not alarm her, for such had been her daily experience for more than a month, ever since that bloody night in Highever. The rough bed felt as usual beneath her body, the blanket overtop her only a bit less noticeable, though unlike normal the bed was completely empty, other than for herself. As she pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked about the familiar room, the elf came to an inescapable conclusion, as impossible as it was. "I dream."

This fact was confirmed by a collection of facts, each impossible in the waking world. When the elf pulled herself off of the bed and to her feet, she saw that she wore a simple tunic and trousers, which the Lord Seeker never would have permitted. When she blinked, moreover, she understood that she looked with _both_ eyes, and an experimental closing of her right eye confirmed that she still retained the ability to see. Her steps were not encumbered by the pain she normally felt upon walking, either.

It was an odd thing to dream after so many blank nights, and it might have been frightening, had she still the capacity to be frightened of such trifles. Even here, though, the overweening terror still suffused every trace of thought, every beat of her heart, bending her will to obedience and blotting out all other considerations but mere survival. Still, though, something akin to curiosity brought her out of the bedchamber and into the Lord Seeker's office, or at least her dream's facsimile of the place.

Even had she the capacity, she would not have been surprised to see the profile of an armoured man standing fast, his back to the doorless archway through which she stepped. Upon a moment's inspection, however, the colour and curve of the metal did not conform to the cast of the Lord Seeker, which brought an incongruity to her mind.

"You are a spirit," she said, a moment later, when all other options had exhausted themselves. Indeed, as the figure turned, she could see the shimmer of the Fade about it.

"Ahh," the spirit said, from behind a full-faced helm, its voice echoing even more oddly than it might've otherwise. "And you are awake...after a fashion, of course. You will not remember me, but I have followed your progress from the shadows of this realm for quite some time."

An old memory surfaced, of a challenge accepted and a test passed. "You are Valour," she pronounced. "I fought you in my Harrowing."

The spirit seemed pleased by this. "And you fought me well, too, especially well for one unaccustomed to combat at arms...though I daresay a retrial would see you the victor far more easily now than in that long-ago combat. You really are the most interesting specimen I have seen come from halls such as these, and I admit it grieved me fearsomely to see you murdered in effigy and be unable to prevent it."

The obvious question presented itself. "Did you wish to intervene?"

"Mightily," Valour replied, planting a mailed fist in the opposite palm. "Yet the only means of protecting you lay in visiting your fate upon another, and her so much less capable. It would have been cowardly and vicious of me, and it would have cheapened the cost of your sacrifice, to no other end but your death."

That was true; in order to prevent the elf's fate, Daya would have had to have been sacrificed in the Fade, which the spirit had apparently been unwilling to countenance. The elf settled upon resolving a different mystery. "Why are we here?"

The spirit's arms crossed before its broad chest. "Do you not recall, brave one?"

Memories bled across the Veil, memories of Morrigan's unexpected appearance in the White Spire, and older ones of their journeys together, many years gone. "We shall remove my fear."

"Not precisely," the spirit corrected, "and not entirely. Fear is a powerful force, and it has its place, even in your most courageous of hearts. But we must return it to its rightful place in your mind, and give you something of the will which has lately been robbed from you."

The elf inclined her head in acknowledgement. She did not desire this outcome; if anything, it made her survival far less likely than the sheltering influence of the Lord Seeker...and yet there was an inevitability to it, even so. She feared the Lord Seeker's displeasure, but a part of her feared the displeasure of her own, of her once-and-future self, all the more strongly. "How is it to be done?"

At this the spirit paused, as though considering the matter deeply. "Were I less scrupulous," Valour said at last, "I would say that the only way to ensure a lasting reparation would be to invite me into your mind, so that I might wear you like a skin and see your world through your eyes."

"My eye," the elf corrected, for in the waking world, she knew she still had but one.

Valour did not contest the interruption, but nor did he acknowledge it. "Yet I have stood here on guard against such ravenous beings, and now I stand ready to offer you a choice. One alternative is simply to have me reach into your mind, and mend what I can of the shorn connection." If a spirit could have a will beyond its animating purpose, Valour seemed indeed to strongly favour this option to the previous.

The elf considered these possibilities mutely for several heartbeats-or would have, if she'd had a heart to truly beat in this place. "And what of other alternatives?"

The chamber echoed with the spirit's muffled sigh. "The door behind me leads to the raw Fade," it cautioned, "and a limitless supply of other spirits with whom you might try to bargain for the same choice...though of the more aloof of my kind, you're unlikely to entice them into the former, while the more ravenous are almost certainly unwilling to entertain the latter. As a last resort, if you wish, you may return whence you came unaltered."

The reality of her predicament, even in this unreal place, pressed in upon her like a cavern in the Deep Roads. The being before her could not decide, would not force or coerce her beyond what he'd already done, so long ago. The decision would have to be hers, and the prospect of deciding incorrectly was paralytic in its terror. "What consequences might come from this?" She asked, monotonously as always, though the fate of her life depended upon the answer.

"Were I to reach into your soul and reform the pieces," the spirit said, "you would instantly wake, drenched in the emotions currently held suppressed. You have not been sundered long, it is true, but the resurrection of your spirit-self will still take you quite some time to process. In the end, however, you will be closest to your whole self, as valourous and filled with élan as always." Were she of her former wont, the elf might have breached the pregnant pause to prompt the spirit to continue, but in her current state, she was content to wait until Valour was prepared to go on. "If, however, you elect for me to join with you, the rift in your mind will be instantly sealed...but at a cost to us both that thoughtful mages and spirits generally decline to bear."

This she understood, or at least could speculate over. "Would I become an abomination?"

Another pause. "In the eyes of your fellow mortals, yes...though if you are worried about becoming permanently twisted of form into a horror that shall be slain on sight, you need not. Such happens only when a mage's will is overridden by a spirit's desire to bring their own form as close to the mortal realm as possible, corrupting the host's very flesh in the process. I have no desire to cross the Veil in any form whatever, nor even an urge to see your world from behind your eyes, in truth. Yet there are great risks, regardless."

The elf inclined her head. "Explain them."

"I cannot," the spirit rebuffed, "for they differ in each case. I can only say that we shall be unified, of one spirit animating your flesh. No longer capable of conversing such as we are now, for one. And...changed, possibly changed beyond the recognition of your fellows. We still might have no self-possession or control in the immediate aftermath of the event, or our purpose may be warped by the power we shall wield, in its unity greater than either of us have commanded as individual beings."

With that the spirit spoke no more, for long enough that it became clear he would not, unless prompted. The gears of her mind worked furiously, untainted by all but one consideration, and yet the elf could not come to a decision. So she sought more information, in case it might assist her in drawing a conclusion. "Why do you offer to help me, spirit?"

"Ahh," Valour settled. "The real question. Why am I willing, though not eager, to subsume myself to mend you?" He moved from his spot, going to pace in front of the spectral fireplace, unlit but casting a cold glow regardless. The elf followed his movement with her eyes, but did not join him in it. "Time counts for little among spirits, as your studies in a tower not unlike this one will have attested," he went on, after a moment's consideration. "And yet we do note it, those of us who have contact with mortals, at any rate. I have long agreed to test the mettle of mages before they face their ultimate challenge...that is, until I battled you." The spirit paused, and he-the elf noted, in passing, that she was thinking of a spirit as _he_-turned his eyeless visor upon her. "An apprentice elf with respectable magical ability but little else to recommend you. Expectations for your Harrowing were mixed; the templar set to guard your mortal form in the waking world worried his courage might fail him, should you require the cleansing of fire and steel.

"I agreed to evaluate your worthiness, and I could see that the slightness of your flesh hid a dragon's heart, when all those around you fumbled in ignorance of your worthiness. Yet even I did not imagine that you would best me; hitherto, I had merely to prove apprentices had conviction and a willingness fight even when odds seemed not in their favour...but you stood, alone and unstaved, and you got me to yield.

"From that moment on, though I did not mention word of it to you, I pledged myself to your service. You showed yourself possessed of the strength to master your fear, and of the virtue to turn that strength to your own defence. Afterward, though reviled and suspected and rejected, you defended the meek and defeated foes greater than most of your kind could imagine." Then the spirit knelt, half a room away from her, and he slowly removed his lustrous helmet. There was a head beneath, or at least the form of one, and the elf could see at once that she had erred in assigning the timbre and quality of the voice and its virtues to the guise of a man. The curve of the spirit's jaw and the sweep of its forehead were clearly molded after a strongly-built woman, and when Valour next spoke, the elf could hear it in her unmodulated voice, as well. "I am yours to command, Athadra Surana. Which boon would you have of me?"

The elf looked into the spirit's eyes, her mind working furiously for a long time before she came to her decision.


	8. Once and Future

_White Spire, Val Royeaux_

_16 Harvestmere, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

Consciousness returned to Athadra all at once, as though she'd been doused with life-giving water, and her renewed awareness was accompanied by one overwhelming emotion. Unlike the last few weeks, during which her every thought had been bent by an unquenchable fear that had hobbled her to the will of Lambert van Reeves, the feeling which swelled in her chest as her eyes opened was an insatiable _anger_. Anger at what had been done to her, true, but also at the humiliation and terror that every mage had been subject to since the rise of Emperor Drakon, at the subjugation the Dales, at all the years lost between her and Morrigan. A small ember of ire kindled for the First Warden for his lack of intervention in her predicament, as well, but her heart was filled with flames beyond reason, innumerable and indistinguishable. As her crimson eye fluttered open and she sat up from the cool stone of the floor, Athadra breathed deeply, and the rage coursed unabated through her veins, dancing through her very flesh. Her gaze fell heavily upon the bed she'd been forced to share with the Lord Seeker until this very hour, and the sight that met her did nothing to quiet the pulsating hatred pounding the inside of her ribs.

There was Morrigan, _her_ Morrigan, straddling the very man who'd brought Athadra so low and refused her the dignity of a valiant death. He looked very much the worse for wear, despite the presence of the gorgeous woman atop him; where all too recently he'd been a hardy man, hale and muscular, he was now a weak and pathetic thing, dessicated and atrophied to the bone, gasping for breath like a fish caught in a net. The essence that had so animated him earlier had been the very source of power for Athadra's lucid dream, for her joining with Valour, for her abrupt mending.

"_There is another ritual which might-might, I stress-supply the requisite energy without immediately slaying the man," Morrigan said, haltingly, her lips turning down even as she spoke. "But I am certain you will mislike the means, should it succeed._"

Morrigan had not been wrong in her assessment. "Enough," Athadra gruffed, her voice rougher and less anodyne than ever. Slowly, though hardly reluctantly, Morrigan disengaged from her charge, breathing a shuddered sigh of relief when she was clear of the man. The details of the ritual were lost to Athadra's memory, but some small part of her took comfort in the fact of her former lover's discomfort with the rite. Lambert, drained of life, could only flutter his lips impotently as the Warden drew up beside the bed. "I told you to kill me," Athadra husked, and as she looked down upon him, the world-particularly the left half of it-took on a purplish hue. She did not yell or cry out, did not make a show of anguish; instead, the elf raised a maimed arm, holding her fingers as flat as a board. "Goodbye, Lambert," she rasped, her voice holding a glimmer of the deadpan that he'd instilled.

Violet tendrils swirled in the air from her fingertips to her elbow, and with hardly a grunt, she drove the Fade-touched limb through the Lord Seeker's ribcage, keeping his face locked in her vision. The blow mangled his lungs and sheared through his heart, taking him far too quickly than was just...but Athadra was not animated by justice, nor even vengeance. No, there was but one principle at work within Athadra's mind as she yanked her arm from the dead man's chest.

_Wrath_, hardly focused and barely contained. She veritably boiled over with it, shaking from the effort of keeping it confined. The world's purple hue deepened as she looked into the corner by the head of the bed, where Fiona stood unblinking, her face impassive. The one-eyed elf held the other woman's gaze for a heartbeat before she reached out with her unbloodied hand. A spasm of violet energy leapt across the distance, striking the centre of the sunburst brand that Lambert had burnt into Fiona's forehead, and it was as natural as breathing to seal the gap in the elf's mind. The connection only lasted for the space of a breath, but when it was broken, Fiona's Tranquil mask cracked open. Tears ran down her face as her expression collapsed in on itself, and she fell to her knees on the floor, hiding a wail behind a clenched fist.

Athadra had no comfort to offer; instead she turned, looking once more upon Morrigan with two eyes-one of flesh, the other of raw energy. "Take her out of here," the mangled elf commanded, her voice a sack of river rocks. "Neither of you should be present for what I intend to do."

Morrigan gave her a guarded look. The Wilds-witch had secured a robe in the intervening moments, and she gathered the fabric more closely about herself. "And just what do you intend to do?" She probed, lightly. Her green-gold eyes betrayed nothing, but there was a subtle tremor to her tone which noted worry, or perhaps even fear.

"I aim to walk out of this tower," Athadra gruffed, her half-magical gaze shifting to the open archway to the anteroom beyond the bedchamber. "And I mean to leave it through the front door."

Morrigan drew up, ignoring the mewling from the other side of the bed as effectively as the Warden. "Where is your destination? Assuming you are not overpowered en route?"

The Warden's corporeal right eye swiveled back to the Wilds-witch, and her scarred cheek puckered with the depth of her smirk. "I won't be," she declared, her fingers flexing with renewed strength; every moment since waking she felt more power permeating her flesh, and now it arced between her fingertips in sparks of arcane energy. "It's best you don't know my heading, Morrigan...at least not yet."

Morrigan scowled, but she did not scoff. "Will I see you again, then?"

There was little obvious emotion behind the question, but Athadra understood a great deal beneath the surface...or, at least, she imagined it. "I hope so," she told the woman who'd been her lover, and then broken her heart. They'd hardly seen one another in ten years, but not a day had passed in that time during which the human woman hadn't crossed Athadra's mind. At one time she'd had the tears to weep over the years they'd missed, but now there was nothing soft left within her, nothing left to mourn. "But you should go now," she said, as much as it might have hurt; the love she felt was only too easily subsumed by the anger churning in her veins, and she did not wish to give vent to that anger just yet.

The human woman nodded, glancing over the corpse to the huddled figure of the living elf beyond. "What of the former First Enchanter? Should she be given succor until you deign to return?"

"No," the Warden dismissed, not even bothering to turn. "As soon as she stops whimpering, take her to Redcliffe. She led mages once; see if she can lead them again."

"Very well," Morrigan acceded. Then, after a pregnant pause, she said, "Take care, Athadra."

oOoOo

The darkness of the cell wasn't _quite_ absolute, though even after all this time, Rhys could hardly make out the iron bars that obstructed the hole in the door that might otherwise serve as an escape route. If he didn't get anything to eat soon, though, he just might be able to fit through the gaps. At this rate, he was close to praying for the headsman's axe; starving to death in the bowels of the White Spire wasn't any way to die. But the thin gruel he'd survived on since his arrest had come less and less frequently, and as far as he could tell, the last time he'd even had a sip of water was more than a day ago...though it was impossible to know for certain in this ceaselessly gloomy place.

"Rhys," came the spirit's voice, from beyond the door. It had an undercurrent of urgency, if not outright panic, that made the mage forget his vow never to speak to its owner again.

"Cole?" He choked out, blinking against the darkness. "What's the matter?" They'd had...a fight, Rhys supposed, since shortly after Rhys' detention in this awful place. He'd been arrested for murder based on little more than a templar's suspicions, which Cole hadn't liked at all; he'd killed another mage in the same circumstances as the previous victims, which should have been enough to release Rhys. But the templars weren't reasonable or rational, and so Rhys was still languishing in the dungeons while another one of his acquaintances was dead at the hands of someone he'd counted as a friend. When Rhys came to understand the enormity of what Cole had done, he'd banished the spirit from his presence, refusing to acknowledge any of Cole's overtures or childish apologies. But now, half-starved of food and completely starved of contact, all Rhys heard was a friend in earnest. "What's the matter?"

"We have to go," the spirit urged. "We have to go _now_. She's killing them all, but she's not _helping_. She's just killing, and when she's done, they'll come back and kill everyone left, and-"

"Wait," Rhys wheezed, suppressing a cough as he stood up. "What are you _talking about_, Cole? Make sense!" He dragged himself to the door, gripping the bars and looking his friend in the eye. "Who's killing whom, now?"

"_She_ is," the spirit answered, unhelpfully. "Every templar, and any mage that tries to help them. The templars don't all help, but they don't all deserve to die...and neither do you. We have to go!" The mage saw a glinting set of keys that the spirit had somehow got hold of, which Cole evidently sought his permission to use. "_Please_, let's go, before the templars come back!"

Rhys' mind reeled, still incapable of making sense of his old friend's warnings. "How'd you get those keys? Do they unlock this cell?" He narrowed his eyes as possibilities presented themselves to him. "How did you get them?"

"I've been telling you," Cole insisted. "She's killing templars, and any mages that try to defend them. There aren't any left down here...they've all gone to fight her, and most of them are dead, now. But more will come...and when they do, they'll kill you. _Please_, Rhys," the spirit begged, and the mage could tell how sincerely he believed what he said, since he'd used Rhys' name. "Please can we go?"

The mage's stomach gurgled audibly, hunger making him wooze momentarily against the door. "Tell me who _she_ is, Cole," he insisted. "Is it someone I know? An enchanter or an apprentice?" What his friend described-or, rather, breathlessly shouted-should have been impossible. Even a possessed mage could not stand against a determined squad of templars...not here in the White Spire, where a single abomination could be contained.

Cole shook his head, his face an open codex of urgency and terror. "That doesn't matter," he pressed, jangling the keys. "Let me _help_. I know a way we can get out without having to go through the main hall." He shook his head again. "We can't leave that way. She's almost there."

Rhys swallowed hard, his papery tongue scratching along the roof of his mouth. In the last few days he'd more or less resigned himself to dying in this dank hole, starved if not simply gutted, one more mage forgotten and erased. Now he was faced with the precise inversion of that fear; not only was he faced with the prospect of surviving, it seemed that his whole world-everything that made his life his own, and worth living-was very quickly coming to an end, and he couldn't even discover the reason. He'd always considered himself a decent man, perhaps even brave...but he knew that a brave man would not run, not when everyone he knew and loved was fighting and drying above him, and he knew just as certainly that he would not be joining them. "Alright," he wheezed, gripping the bars all the more tightly. "Let's get out of here, Cole."

oOoOo

_The Amphiteatre, Weisshaupt_

_17 Firstfall, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

In ages past, warriors would know when to enter the arena by the acclamation of the crowd; built by Tevinter hands and consecrated with elven blood, its halls had once rumbled and echoed with the screams of Imperial subjects, thirsty for the spectacle of battle. But the days of gladiators sweating and bleeding for sport were long gone, at least in the Anderfels, and there was no mob to signal the expected start of combat. The compound was instead filled with Grey Wardens, at least half of the total from every nation in Thedas save Orlais; Athadra had been here for seven days and had yet to come across a single Orlesian Warden. Not that she'd been looking, precisely-instead, she had spent her time preparing for this day, and avoiding the Fereldan Wardens. They thought her dead, and that was just as well, for she would not be returning to Redcliffe, come what might. She would emerge from this tournament its victor, or she would not emerge at all.

A tournament to determine the First Warden had not been called since shortly after the Fourth Blight, before the extinction of the griffons made the title all but ceremonial. Without the beasts' rapid transport there could be no effective centralisation of the Wardens, not across the length and breadth of the continent, and over the last four hundred years that had resulted in a fragmenting of the Order. For reasons of his own, the former First Warden must have felt that the _status quo_ could no longer hold, and so he'd arranged for this gathering to determine the next leader of the Grey Wardens. The rules were simple; any Grey Warden could enter and would be sorted into one of seven cohorts. Each cohort had a day devoted to serial paired combat until only one member remained. Order of entry was determined by lots, and once someone stepped out onto the sand, they could not leave until they were defeated...so the later someone entered, the more likely they were to stand as the cohort's champion. On the eighth day the seven champions would meet for a grand melee to determine the First Warden.

Athadra had arrived on the last day of subscription, very nearly at the last hour. The seneschal had sorted her into the seventh cohort and tried to have her draw a lot to determine her order of entry. He'd actually laughed when she'd told him to put her name down first. "Brave lass," he'd said, "or foolish." But he'd put her name down, regardless, and directed her to a small cloistered room where she'd spent the intervening days.

A knock sounded against the door, and Athadra's good ear heard the echoes of eons ago in the rapping sound. "It is time, Warden Athenril," the seneschal said in Andish through the wood, using the name she'd given him. "Are you prepared?"

The Warden threw her open-fronted cloak on over her simple tunic and trousers, and she secured the bandana and broad-brimmed hat she used to cover her mangled eye socket and the obscene scar on her forehead before stepping out into the hall. "Aye," she gruffed, in the same tongue, her single blood-coloured eye cutting up to the human man's face. His skeptical expression drew a snarl from her. "What?"

"Are you truly going into battle unarmed?" He wondered, a grizzled brow arching. "Unarmoured?"

"No," Athadra growled, setting off down the columned hall. When the older man stepped to follow, she snapped over her shoulder, "I know the way." The seneschal desisted after a few more steps, leaving her to walk across the cracked marble tiles in silence.

Just before she reached the portcullis into the arena proper she came across the man who would be her initial opponent, a great big ox of a man, nearly as big as the Sten who'd followed her during the Blight, but his unhelmed head showed human features behind a thick red beard, and when he spoke it was in the lilted tongue of the northern Free Marches. "You're my first, eh?"

At least his tone held no note of condescension, despite the fact that he wore steel armour and carried a broadaxe that stood taller than she did. "Aye," she answered him. "If your Maker wills it, I won't be your last. Good luck." The man nodded, returned the courtesy, and showed his honour-or his foolishness-by turning his back and preceding her out into the open circle without contest. The sun had yet to really penetrate the mist that had settled within the bowl of the amphiteatre, but Athadra could see the shadows of the austere audience that had already gathered to witness the final day of paired combat. Somewhere in that crowd sat Nathaniel, the champion of the sixth cohort, with Oghren and Sigrun not far away; she wasn't sure how many more of her people were here, but she had to admit to a certain amount of pride that her second-in-command had entered the tournament, ignorant as he was of her survival and her presence in the amphitheatre, at least for the moment. That he'd won the combat of the previous day was simply expected, as she'd trained with him for much of the last decade and knew what he was capable of.

There was no ceremony, no locutor to announce them or rile up the observers, only two Wardens who walked into the middle of the sand and stood facing one another a few paces apart, one bedecked in arms and armour and the other dressed only in the vestments of the road without even a paring knife to her person. Nevertheless she offered her fellow warrior a slivered smirk and a miniscule nod. "Are we ready to begin?"

"Aye," the man huffed, unshouldering his greataxe and widening his stance just enough to distribute his weight more favourably. He opened with a tight, swift swing that would've cleaved a genlock in twain without leaving him open to a counterattack, designed to send Athadra scrambling backward, so she would struggle to keep her footing for the follow-up blow and lose it entirely for the third strike, which would have left her on the ground, completely at his mercy.

Only she didn't jump back to avoid the downswing; instead, she threw up her arms, casting an arcane shield that slowed the axe's edge to a stop a finger's width from the top of her forehead, so close the steel bent the front of her hat's brim down, blocking her view of the taller man. Before he could react, the elf's gnarled hands converged on the haft of the greataxe, just beneath its head, and she wrenched the weapon sideways with such force that it slipped through the other Warden's fingers. Athadra twisted around on her feet, leaning into the momentum, and a heartbeat later she'd driven the flat top of the axehead into her opponent's flank. Her good ear caught the sound of his ribs breaking underneath his armour and an involuntary cry was not long in coming as he went down; after a handful of heartbeats, it became clear that he would not rise again, at least to challenge her. "Guess your Maker weren't interested," Athadra gruffed, holding his weapon out to him handle-first to help the big man lever himself back onto his feet.

"Suppose not," he wheezed, and a chuckle turned into a hacking cough that saw a few crimson specks decorate his lips. "Do you want to keep her?" He asked, nodding toward his axe that the elf still hadn't relinquished.

"No," Athadra decided, surrendering her grip on the haft. "You should see a healer," she advised. "I'll need every Warden on their feet, after I win, tomorrow."

Her opponent offered her another pink-flecked laugh, shaking his head. "Now that they know you're a mage, somebody'll be ready for you," he countered, light-heartedly. "But...good luck, any case. Maker's smile, all that." He offered her a half-bow, his face only tensing about the margins from the pain he must have felt, and he limped back to the staging area in silence.

His prediction proved well-made, for the very next fighter was a stoic Ander warrior-woman who'd obviously had some training as a templar; her armour even incorporated the fiery sword as the base for the griffon stamp of her true Order. Athadra's chest tightened at the sight, the coiled rage within hardly leashed. The effort of containing it must have shown on her face, for the templar frowned as she readied her sword and shield. "An apostate," she observed, without any real judgement, and only a modicum of distaste.

Athadra inclined her head. "You're not wrong," she admitted, and she gave the woman the courtesy of dodging her first speculative swing, just as the templar had given her the courtesy of refraining from Smiting her on sight. The woman was disciplined, using her sword sparingly and keeping her shield firmly between herself and the mage, tilted forward at just enough of an angle to properly deflect any fire or ice that Athadra might try to send her way. They fell into a pattern, where the templar would slash out in a tight arc and Athadra would dodge by sidestepping rightward, where she had a greater field of vision, and then the two would circle a common centre for a handful of heartbeats before the templar would offer another furtive attack.

Several minutes passed in this manner, minutes which should have been far bloodier; yet Athadra meant what she'd told the Marcher axeman, that she would have need of every Warden afoot, regardless of their skills or histories...so, to the consternation of the spirit within her, the elf ceded dry ground by the inch rather than wet it with the blood and gore of the templar. It was only when the woman's frustration got the better of her discipline, and then only by the thinnest of margins, that Athadra took her chance; when one arc was just a bit too wide, the elf feinted right, as she'd thus far moved, but in the last second she pivoted and rushed forward, stepping into the templar's reach.

A scarred hand clapped around the templar's gauntleted forearm and an elbow wrenched her shield from her abdomen. Though smaller and lighter than the warrior, Athadra used her momentum to drive her forehead into the woman's nose; a well-placed heel behind the templar's boot in time with the sickening _crunch_ of her septum was enough to send the woman reeling back, and Athadra snatched up her sword as she fell. "Yield," the elf instructed, holding the templar's own weapon to her throat.

Still dazed, blinking, the overmatched woman squinted up at the elf. A heartbeat passed, her eyes widening, and Athadra saw her own face reflected in the templar's gaze; the brief flurry of combat had shifted the brim of her hat, and from below, the faintest edge of the sunburst brand upon her forehead was visible, peeking from behind the dark cloth that occluded the left half of her forehead. "What _are_ you?" The templar breathed, her ragged breath hardly audible.

"I were the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden," Athadra admitted, in similarly hushed tones. "But by the time the sun sets tomorrow, I'll be the First Warden, or I will be dead." She took a step back, casting her stolen sword aside. "Yield," she advised, once more. "If you can see fit to follow me, that is."

The templar's fingers curled slowly, and she drew a long breath, heaving a grunt as she sat up in her heavy armour. "I yield," she called, loudly enough for the observers to hear. She shared a silent nod with Athadra as she clambered to her feet, not bothering to retrieve her surrendered weapon as she retreated.


	9. Blood On Her Name

Author's note: Here it is, the final chapter of First Blood. There is some brutality and direct gore here, but if you've made it this far, I hope you're not put off by that. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

* * *

_The Amphiteatre, Weisshaupt_

_18 Firstfall, 9:39 Dragon_

oOoOo

The seven champions each made their way into the arena from seven portals spread evenly around the amphitheatre's circumference. Nathaniel thought upon the echoes of history in the very ritual in which he'd perhaps too hastily enlisted himself, though he could hardly walk away from it now. _Seven gods, seven doors_, he reflected, as he and the others drew nearer to the centre of the sand. _Seven champions_. A man stood there, waiting for them next to a podium which held a stone cistern, and as Nathaniel drew near, he noted Tevene script carved into the bowl. Their attendant was older than the seneschal, and if anything, he looked even less pleased to be here this morning; the archer saw him cast a sullen glance in six directions, his eyes flitting on each of the contestants...each but one. There was Nathaniel himself, of course, along with three Ander Wardens, a Rivaini swordsman, and a Nevarran spearwoman, all of whom received an equal share of the unknown man's grim attention.

The sole exception was the one person that Nathaniel and the other five champions could not keep their eyes off of. She hadn't bothered with the broad-brimmed hat today, and the patch over her left eye socket did not obscure the horrible mark upon her forehead. She looked thin, all scars and wires wrapped up in fleshless skin, her hair shorn down almost to the scalp, her cheeks gaunt. But Athadra's right eye kindled with a recogniseable fire, and she'd proved that she was every bit as formidable as the woman who'd brought down Urthemiel, who'd gutted the Mother, who'd slain Corypheus and fought Meredith to a standstill. Like yesterday, she brought no arms and wore only simple clothes, but nobody in the arena would mistake that as an opportunity to dismiss her prowess now.

"We thought you were dead," he told her in their shared tongue, speaking of Oghren and Sigrun and the rest of the Wardens she'd left behind when she'd given him and his sister cover to escape Highever. "Everyone except Sura."

That brought an arch to the scarred elf's brow, but before she could answer him, their host cleared his throat. "_Gut morgen, Wilhelm_," she said instead, pre-empting the man's announcement. When she continued speaking, it was in Andish, a tongue Nathaniel's ear hadn't been properly attuned to over the course of his education, though he could make out enough to get by. "I'll bet you thought I was dead, too," Athadra goaded the man.

At long last he cast his eye toward the champion of the seventh cohort. "It was understood that you were, yes," he hissed. "I doubt the First Warden would have gone to his fate if he had been in any doubt."

"If it makes a difference," Athadra conceded, "I did warn the Lord Seeker to kill me." She grimaced, her nostrils flaring as she snorted a breath. "Pity Johanus was so certain...I really would've enjoyed strangling him meself."

Rugen, champion of the third cohort, scoffed. "If you do not hold your tongue, you will be lucky to limp away from here with it between your teeth." He spat upon the ground, and Nathaniel found himself holding his breath, waiting for Athadra's reply.

Rather than anger, however, a sort of curiosity stole over the elf's features, verging almost on pity. "So they do not know," she mused, glancing up at the attendant, whom she'd named Wilhelm. "Interesting."

"What don't we know?" Ysadorre demanded, her words coloured by Nevarran tones. She held her spear casually in the crook of her arm, but Nathaniel had watched her nearly behead her final opponent with it on the fifth day of combat, and he wasn't anticipating having to lunge within its reach with his much shorter daggers. The woman looked suspiciously from Athadra to Wilhelm and back again, her grip on her spear subtly tightening.

"Ysadorre," Wilhelm called, loudly enough for his voice to carry over the rows of assembled Wardens in the audience. "Rugen," he continued, tipping a nod to the big Ander man. "Nathaniel. Siam. Ludwig. Faramund." Each name rang out, echoing around the bowl of the amphitheatre, reaching even the high rows where only a few stood to watch. Silence settled in the long pause that Wilhelm took, before he once again acknowledged the elven Warden with the Chantry brand. "Athadra." He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing a grimace, before he'd collected his wits again. "Each of you has been called to put yourself to the test, to see which is worthy of the title of First among us. Called by duty, and glory. Called by First Warden Johanus, and by Wilhelm, the Chamberlain of the Grey. Each of you will step forward," he instructed, "and offer your blood to the cup. A gout or a drop makes little difference."

A fierce calm settled upon the arena, the air pregnant with respect and expectation. Ysadorre was the first, her unanswered question forgotten. She stepped up to the podium, working her left hand free of its glove, and she made a precise cut to the side of her palm, from which she squeezed a healthy measure of her crimson essence.

Without having to be told, Nathaniel knew it was his turn next, since his name had been called second. Ice settled in the pit of his stomach as he considered his predicament; once, more years before than he cared to recall, he'd taken a cup full of poisoned blood and swallowed it all down. Since then he'd witnessed many and varied examples of blood magic, not a few of them sorcered by his erstwhile Commander, who now stood not three armlengths away, waiting. Heaving a sigh, the rogue produced the shanker he kept at his belt, opting to prod the tip of his left thumb until it wept a tear of blood. As soon as that single tear fell into the basin, Nathaniel stepped away, sucking away the renewed well of crimson that beaded over his thumb.

One by one, each of the seven contestants stepped up to the great stone bowl, offering a dose of their lifeblood. When it was finally Athadra's turn, she held out her hand to Wilhelm, who looked as though a cat had just retched up on his boots. After a moment, however, he understood the request, and he produced a dagger for the elf to mutilate herself as the others had just done. Athadra sliced a trench clear across her palm and held it over the basin, letting her wine-coloured blood run freely into its depths for several heartbeats before using her magic to staunch the flow and seal the wound, though Nathaniel noticed that she hadn't bothered preventing a scar. Somehow, he knew that did not bode well, whatever it meant.

As soon as the last drop of blood settled in the bowl, a strange glow began emanating from the script about the rim. Nathaniel felt his own blood squirming in his veins, and as he looked around, he saw the same Tevene letters appear all around them, emblazoned on the very walls of the amphitheatre. "What is the meaning of this?" He managed, as the light and his blood both began to settle.

Athadra blinked her single eye at him, her lips turning to a frown. "I'm sorry, Nate," she breathed, shaking her head.

Comprehension began dawning as Wilhelm spoke up again. "The compact is sealed. Seven combatants have answered the call; each have added their power to the cup. There may be but one victor in this competition...and they who shall be First will partake of the cup, absorbing the combined essence of their brethren and sistren." He allowed a moment for the realisation to sink in; up to now, the contests had been explicitly non-fatal by design, and only a few unhappy accidents had broken the edict. Even Athadra had shown restraint the previous day, leaving each of her opponents broken and bleeding, but alive. Now, though, it was clear that-other than the Chamberlain himself-only one of the Wardens would walk from this place. Just as Nathaniel understood this truth, Wilhelm began the chant of their Order, and his voice was soon joined by a thousand others, reciting in a half-dozen tongues, all in unison. "_In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice._"

Without another word, Wilhelm began to retreat from the circle they'd made about the podium, and as the echoes of the chant faded, the air grew thick once again, with tension and the promise of blood. Each of the contestants eyed one another for a moment, before all their attention focused on Athadra; barely twelve hours gone, they'd all seen her limp away from the arena, after having spent the better part of the day there in vicious combat. It was clear that she had to be the most exhausted of them, the least prepared...though, from her conduct on the field, it was equally clear that she was the most dangerous. Nathaniel could sense silent alliances forming in those few heartbeats, as the three Ander Wardens passed glances amongst themselves, and Siam and Ysadorre nodded subtly to one another. Athadra was the first to break the tension; though she lacked even a stiletto to defend herself, she tumbled laterally, rebounding off the ground, spinning in the air, aiming a pointed elbow at Rugen's face. The man was in the middle of drawing his blade, but he had to stumble back in order to avoid a broken nose.

Nathaniel could not afford to gawk, however; the three Anders were working together against his former Commander, which left Ysadorre and Siam, the Nevarran and the Rivaini. Apparently they'd come to the not-unreasonable conclusion that Nathaniel would intervene on Athadra's behalf, and that their efforts were best spent on preventing him from doing so while the Anders did their best to bring her to heel. He had to dodge Ysadorre's spear, pulling his long daggers from his shoulders as he did so; they were far shorter than Siam's sword, but he was enough acquainted with his weapons to turn the larger blade and offer a counterswipe that forced Siam to take a half-step backward. Ducking on little more than instinct, Nathaniel spun around, beating a retreat to keep both opponents in view. From the corner of his eye, he saw Athadra giving inches of her own, still weaponless, dodging and striking and shielding herself with nothing but the magic she forged from her will. If he still prayed, he might well have prayed for her in that moment. But the rogue no longer bid his thoughts to the Maker, and he had only an instant's attention to spare, besides. Further, he lacked the ability to stand so firm against his own attackers, though they were one fewer in number and neither were so strong as any of the big men Athadra faced off against.

Ysadorre had the longest reach, and she mercilessly drove him back with her spear, giving Siam's blade enough room to manouevre wickedly; it was a delicate balance to keep far enough away to prevent a thrusting jab from either of them, while not simply fleeing, so that Ysadorre might take aim and use him for target practice. In that middle distance was where Siam's sword was the most deadly, and Nathaniel found himself taking a half-step right for every step he gave backwards, driven there by the Rivaini on his left. Grunts and bellows sounded from the other side of the arena, across the dais, and the bowl filled with their blood.

Suddenly the stone markings in the bowl flashed, as bright as a second sun, nearly blinding Nathaniel before he screwed his eyes up tight. In that heartbeat he knew he should die, but the years of battle against more numerous foes had given him instincts even he hadn't counted on, and he feinted another rightward retreat before diving left. Before he landed, though, a guttural scream rang out in his ears, coming from the other knot of warriors; without having to look, he knew that one of them had died. _And you'll join them, fool_, a voice rang out in his head, more clearly than it ever had. It wasn't his voice...it was Athadra's, whispered through the connection they shared in her blood. _Get up_.

In an instant Nathaniel rolled backward, pushing off of his shoulder and flipping over onto his feet; in that same instant, both sword and spear crossed where he'd just been laying, apparently too tempting for both Siam and Ysadorre to resist. They glanced at one another, their alliance suffering a moment's doubt...and that was enough for Nathaniel to decide. The sword was most dangerous in the middle distance, the most likely to end his dance prematurely. When Nathaniel struck, it was with an archer's precision, his dagger slipping into the flesh between Siam's tendons and his windpipe. With a quick _yank_, the rogue severed the man's carotid artery and the sinews which held it in place. The first gush of blood sprayed to Siam's left, showering Ysadorre in crimson, and she had to turn away in order to keep from being blinded by the fountain. Nathaniel stepped into Siam's reach in another heatbeat, his yet-unbloodied dagger sinking into the right side of the other man's neck...and, like that, the jugular vein was torn asunder, crimson life gushing in all directions as the swordsman fell backward.

Nathaniel flinched backward against the expected spray, but it never came. Instead, the great gouts and sheets of blood that Siam's heart pumped hung in the air like a haze, vibrating with the force of the man's death rattle. When at last the swordsman's heart gave out and the last of his blood rose into the air, the cloud moved as one body toward the podium, and the bowl which it upheld. The script on the bowl flashed once more as Siam's lifeblood joined its contents, and Nathaniel couldn't look away this time.

It was to his cost. Ysadorre recovered from both the flash and the shock more quickly than Nathaniel, and she swept his legs from beneath him with a vicious swipe of her spear. She stood over him, her spotless spear poised to deliver a killing blow. In his fall, Nathaniel's daggers had slipped from his grasp, landing within fingers' widths of his hands...but, even as his fingers spread out to grasp them, Ysadorre kicked his weapons away with a pitiless laugh. "Saved me the trouble," she commended him, hiking her spear into an overhand grip that would let her bring it down with great force.

Just then, though, something in the distance caught the spearwoman's eye. She glanced from Nathaniel to the other warriors-now down to two against one-and Nathaniel saw the decision in her face even before she spoke. "Best not to risk an abomination leading us to ruin," she murmured, and it only took her another heartbeat to find her moment.

"No!" Nathaniel hissed, when Ysadorre threw her spear in a graceful arc. The rogue could only watch, supine and helpless, his eyes following the curve of the weapon's path as it crossed the dry sand. He heard the sickening squelch of the impact, saw the spearpoint drive into Athadra's flank and punch through her abdomen, honed steel parting unresisting flesh as though it were water. "No," Nathaniel repeated, but there was nothing he could do as Athadra fell to her knees, any cry swallowed by the distance and the gasps of shock from the watching Wardens.

_That's not true_, his ears didn't hear, and it was his own voice in his head, this time. Without another thought, Nathaniel twisted beneath Ysadorre, pulling her down to the ground and moving atop her. He fetched one of the shankers in his boot as he did so, and he did not wait for her surprise to subside before he drove the steel point into the front of her throat, all the way into the base of her brain stem. The spearwoman didn't even have time to gurgle before the light flickered from her eyes, blood welling thickly around the stiletto.

It didn't make up for having to watch Athadra die a second time, Nathaniel found, as he got to his feet and yanked his weapon free from the other Warden's wound. The pressure from her final heartbeat caused a weak splash of crimson, but it was soon overtaken by the blood that magically rose from the hole in Ysadorre's throat. Every drop lifted from her body, from the soil, even from the knife in Nathaniel's hand, and it, too, went into the basin at the centre of the arena. Distance afforded the rogue a few moments to catch his breath, and he hung his head with the effort of breathing. There were still two Wardens left, by his reckoning, both big Ander bastards that would already be versed in fighting together against a much fiercer target than he'd be able to present in his current state. Still, he owed it to Athadra to try. To her, and to Oghren...and to Sigrun. _Above all, to you_, he told himself, though he didn't look out, did not attempt to locate the dwarf in the audience. It would have been too painful if he'd succeeded.

When his eyes _did_ finally lift, however, he was taken aback by what he saw. Athadra, or at least Athadra's corpse, was slowly rising from the ground, righting itself, floating in midair a few feet from the sand of the arena. Nathaniel saw the elf's nerveless fingers become livid as they wrapped around the spear's shaft, just beneath the head. She _jerked_, and the spear _squelched_, pulled a handful of inches through her torso. Blood dripped from the newly-exposed inches of wood, and like the previous combatants', it did not reach the dirt; unlike them, however, Athadra's blood swirled into a fine mist, threading around her into a vivid, crimson aura that thickened with each shuddered inch she pulled the spear through her own body. He could not see her face from this vantage, could not know what horrors must pass there, but shouts of distress and amazement rang out from the audience, principally those stood directly in front of the astonishing scene. The two opponents who faced her must have been veterans of some note and skill, even to have made it this far; Rugen and Faramond had both entered their contests at midday on the third and fourth days, respectively, and they had shone both cunning and ruthlessness in winning their places as champions. As Wardens, they must have seen horrors in the Deep Roads and the Silent Plains that even most of their brethren could not have withstood.

And yet the two men looked utterly terrified at what they saw, so much so that by the time Athadra had worked the spear from her body, they each threw down their weapons and ran. Athadra was almost occluded in a curtain of her own blood, but through the strands of crimson, Nathaniel saw vivid purple light dancing over her skin...no, he was wrong. The light came _through_ her, pulsing through cracks and seams in her flesh. When the woman screamed, the sound was tinned with an otherworldly edge, a quivering rage that bespoke of centuries of fury. The spear fell, forgotten and utterly spotless, and in another instant the levitating elf extended both of her hands through the curtain of blood, her limbs gnarled and veined with veilfire. With a simple gesture, Athadra halted the retreating Wardens in their tracks. Through some connection in her blood, Nathaniel felt his own veins twisting, as though in sympathy...though for whom he couldn't tell, as Athadra's opponents-no, really, her _victims_-collapsed and began to writhe in agony.

It was _awful_ to watch, but the rogue could do little else, a muted chill rising from somewhere deep inside him. The Ander Wardens clawed and choked and died on their own blood, which began streaming from their eyes, their mouths, seeping from the very pores of their skin, threading through the joints in their armour. Not long after, they were still, and the haze of their mixing lifeblood siphoned itself into that waiting cistern, which must now be brimming with corrupted essence.

Nathaniel was still standing there, two steps from Ysadorre's corpse, when Athadra's feet lit upon the ground and she turned to look at him. Her own blood had gone; back into her veins or into the stone bowl, Nathaniel could not tell which. Her eyepatch was gone as well, exposing the flesh-covered socket and the Chantry's sunburst that had been blazed into her forehead. As she drew closer he saw a great hole torn into her tunic, exposing the puckered scar in her abdomen, left there by Ysadorre's spear. She still shuffled when she walked, and if he hadn't seen it for himself, he'd never have believed her a vicious abomination.

Something within him, beyond the taint, beyond the blood that he shared with her, told him to snatch up a weapon, told him to fight and die with a blade in his hand. Surely she could not deny him that much...surely he couldn't deny it of himself. But, instead, Nathaniel found his eyes scanning the rows of warriors around them, scanning until he found a particular tattooed face. Even at this distance, the anguish on Sigrun's face was as clear as the sky between them. "Sorry, love," he breathed, offering the dwarf a smirk that he knew she'd see. "Looks like I'm going back on my promise after all." He broke eye contact with a sigh and stepped away from Ysadorre's body, tugging his gloves off as he went; he rubbed his bared knuckles, slightly swollen by age and heavy use, and he nodded to his former Commander. "I see you didn't emerge from Lambert's clutches unscathed."

The elf gave him a scarred smile, showing no hint of the mad spirit which had animated her only moments before. "No," she allowed. "Not as scathed as he were, though."

They stood there, each taking the other's measure, each bound by ancient magicks that Nathaniel suspected not even an abomination could break...not that he'd want her to, even if she could. Maybe for Sigrun's sake, but he knew that would not move the woman who would be First among them. "Will they follow you?" He asked, genuinely curious, as well as concerned.

"They cannot but," Athadra replied, tipping her brow to the brimming cistern. "'Tis an ancient law what's been invoked here, and if any turn their backs from it, they'll not be Wardens any longer...at least, not for long." There was a hint of violet at the edge of her blood-coloured eye.

"What of Clarel?" Nathaniel wondered, as though they were in an office discussing strategy, rather than on a battlefield standing at cross purposes. "She and most of her branch are not here. There were...rumours...of a Calling in the South. We did not feel it before we departed Redcliffe, but…"

"It's a false Calling," Athadra replied, her certainty unshakeable. "I felt it, too, while I were in Orlais." Her lips turned down as she drew up to her full height, though she remained more than a head shorter than Nathaniel. "It'll get sorted, one way or the other," she vowed. "You've got my promise; I'll protect them."

"Thank you," Nathaniel gruffed. "...Commander," he allowed, closing his eyes and tipping his head forward. "It has been an honour."

"It has," Athadra agreed. "And...for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

_So am I_, Nathaniel was on the cusp of saying, but he didn't get a chance; without a hint of pain, the blackness behind his eyes elided smoothly into a deeper darkness, the feel of the earth beneath his boots fell away, and even the silence that had settled over the amphitheatre muted into nothing at all.


End file.
